


Shadow of Mordor: Revelations

by RoseMeister



Category: Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor (Video Games)
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Talion doesn't exist and Ioreth is the protagonist, kinda an angsty overview of Ioreth's life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-15 11:03:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13029693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseMeister/pseuds/RoseMeister
Summary: What's left of her soul was sold over to revenge since she first awoke in this twilight life. Sauron and his minions murdered her soul, eviscerated her sense of peace, and maybe, maybe, it was Celebrimbor's fault for her remaining in this world, but it was Mordor that corrupted her, Mordor that turned her from woman to monster.Over the years, Ioreth tries to find her place in the world. A dark lord and a quest for revenge get in the way.





	1. Chapter 1

"How's the kid doing?" A guard shouts as Ioreth and her father pass, his voice loud and spun into a careless slur by wine.

Ioreth can't help but turn and look at him, study his features. He's ugly, she decides. Less from his actual features and more from the expression his thoughts and words have carved his face into. He notices her looking and sneers down at her.

"Bit of a runt, aye?" The man continues.

Ioreth frowns at him, and opens her mouth to snap back at him. She's strong, even at her age. She can make this ugly smelly man swallow his words. She knows she can. But her father clamps his hand down on her shoulder hard, grips it tighter than any blade he has ever lifted, steers her away.

"Enough, Galan." Her father growls over his shoulder. But he does nothing else. Just walks away, his hand weighing her shoulder down.

* * *

"Why didn't you fight him?" She asks later.

Her father just looks at her, disappointment clear in his eyes.

She shifts uncomfortably under his gaze, but doesn't back down, and finally he speaks.

"This is the Citadel, Ioreth. I am Guard-Captain. This is no place for wars. I hope I never serve in one, and I most certainly do not start them." But there's some other message woven amongst his words, writ in tone and emotion, but she can't quite decipher it.

"Oh." She says.

* * *

She just about moves into the barracks with her father, skips her classes in order to join the other guards in drills, and he doesn't say a word. She can't bring herself to care anymore.

Some of the guards are like Galan, sneering at her, laughing if she drops her sword or stumbles, but most get bored once it becomes clear that nothing they've done has dissuaded her in the slightest.

Others are nicer, fetching a wooden sword for her to practice with, softly correctly her stance when they walk past. Her father barely looks at her when he passes, and bit by bit, Ioreth starts practicing less for him, and more for the guards who have helped her, like Reilan, a man almost too old to still be serving, but who always has a kind word for her, and a hundred stories about the grandson he says she reminds him of.

Reilan promises to buy her an actual sword if she keeps practicing, and so she holds her wooden blade that much tighter, swings it even harder, desperate not for the gift but more for his proud smile when her progress impresses him.

When she sees her father, his mouth is pressed thin. She pretends not to notice.

* * *

She is barely past fourteen when Reilan stops visiting her while she's practicing. She tries to ignore how disappointed she feels, squashes the twist in her gut. She just practices by herself for a handful of days, until frustration ruins her form and sends her storming into her father's office, still dirty from practice.

His eyes flick up to her, and a small frown flickers on and off his face almost before she can catch it.

She opens her mouth to speak, what she'll say she doesn't even know yet, but he holds up a hand and stops her before any words can escape her mouth.

"He's dead, Ioreth." He says, blunt as a hammer, his words heavy as one too, slamming down on Ioreth's chest until she cannot breathe.

"What?"

Her father looks down at some papers and shuffles them. She can't quite tell if he's disinterested in the conversation, too emotional, or simply cannot bear to look at her too long. She's not sure she wants to know.

"A patrol went wrong. A panicked robber pushed him down a steep set of stairs, and, well. You can guess the rest. We caught the robber, if you were worried about that."

Nothing feels right. Everything was both too heavy and too light, all at once, and Ioreth can't make her lungs work the way they normally do. She feels like she should cry, shed tears to mourn a man who taught her so much, but nothing comes, and she feels like a traitor to his memory because of it.

Her father glances up at the shock in her face and sighs.

"He was old, Ioreth. It was always going to happen one day."

"Right." She just about spits. And she walks back out.

* * *

She's not stupid, she knows her father would rather she just quietly turn up to her lessons, let him forget she even exists. It would be easier in a lot of ways, just letting someone else's desires sweep her off, decide her course.

But there's an angry stubbornness in her belly that resents that. It's a serpent, twisted together from coals and white hot steel, and it keeps her trying. It rests deep in her stomach, only rising to hiss at anyone who dares tell her what she should be doing instead.

So she joins the guards at their practice. Properly this time, duelling the other guards even though she knows she is not yet good enough. She absorbs it all. Takes the humiliation when she is thrown to the ground, when her blade is torn from her grasp, and all she can hear is un-muted laughter, because to everyone around her she is still the crazy little girl, and she learns from it. She learns from every bruise, every scratch from where foreign metal attacks her skin. She learns.

Even when she doesn't fight she is still focused on acquiring more and more knowledge. She pinpoints which guards are the best at what they do, and she analyses them, cuts apart their style, practices it herself.

* * *

And it works, eventually. She challenges Galan, the man now considered to be the best swordsman in his division, and he laughs at her, long and hard until he realises that she is serious.

She is seventeen now, and he is at least 8 years older than her, but she doesn't care. He's much taller than she is, stronger too, but even that doesn't dissuade her.

She'd never have gotten this far if she hadn't been stubborn.

Galan’s laughter fades away entirely, and instead he just glares at her, sharp and piercing, like he thinks his eyes are just as sharp as his sword, and he can fight her off with a look before he has to draw his sword.

But she doesn't move. Just stares right back until he relents and agrees to fight her, smirking a little at his friends, nodding them over, inviting them to watch what he obviously experts to be a highly amusing bout.

* * *

Here's the thing: he's good. Really good. Ioreth can barely keep up with his speed, can only just deflect his blows, and for ages it looks like she's an inch off taking a dive into the dirt.

But here's the other thing: she doesn't. She's been watching and learning for so long that it finally looks like she's learnt something. It finally looks like she has a chance

And, well, the final thing is this: she's been watching him. Long enough to know he's skilled, long enough to know that if anyone at this base knows what they're doing with a blade, it's him. But, after all, he's good. Not perfect. Never perfect.

She knows he puts too much weight on his left foot when he thrusts his sword, and with a sidestep more graceful than she ever dreamed she could perform she dodges him, moving past only just enough to avoid the stab, close enough that it looks like she's only just fast enough. Only just good enough.

She doesn't mind being underestimated, this time, not when he stumbles past her, not when he doesn't swing around to face her straight away, as if he were too shocked by the fact that she's not awful to bother being so guarded.

She doesn't waste a second being offended, not when her foot is already in the air, slamming onto his back, sending him sprawling on the dusty cobblestones.

She grins a little to herself, and for the first time since their fight began the outside world starts to bleed into notice, and she feels the sun above her, the crowd that has gathered, the breathless silence.

She's distracted. She knows that. But she allows herself to feel it, feel the pride blooming in her chest.

It's a mistake really. Worse than the one her opponent had made, for she doesn't even see him moving until it's far too late, and she is the one sprawling on the ground, only this time red hot pain swells one side of her face, and it's only when she presses her fingers to it and they come off painted crimson that she realises she's been cut.

"This fight is over." Her opponent hisses, turning and stomping away. He holds his head high as he goes, marching stiffly as if he is just daring someone to challenge him, tell him that the fight hadn't gone as well as he seemed determined to pretend it had.

Ioreth doesn't care. Maybe she didn't win, but she still feels as if she had won something else in the process. A couple of the guards nod at her once she makes it to her feet, one even clapping his hand on her shoulder and smiling at her.

She turns to leave, but her focus is stolen by a figure leaning heavily against a doorway, one crafted from stone and lead, and it is only when her movements make it obvious that she's seen him does the figure move, retreating back into the room. She'd have left it at that had she not known exactly who it was, and exactly what he wanted when he sightlessly beckoned for her to follow.

The thrill of victory sinks into the mud and the muck, and she follows meekly, not arguing when her father sinks into his worn chair and motions for her to sit opposite him. She's not quite sure how to react yet, whether she should sit defiant and strong, or slump guiltily, so she just sits.

Her father sighs, and in an instant seems to pick up every year he's lived through, time and age dragging at his skin. It makes everything more pronounced, his posture, still stiff, his entwined hands. His frown.

"Why must you do these things?" His voice is soft, but no less accusing.

"I just wanted to prove myself. That I-"

His hand slams down hard on the table, shocking her into silence.

"Why can you still not see that that doesn't matter?" His voice shifts, still not loud, but all the more deadly because of it. Hissing, a promise of danger, the light scraping of steel on steel. "You do not need to prove yourself. There is nothing to prove!"

She looks at him in disbelief. "But... No one believes I can do this. No one can see that I have what it takes."

Anger burns clear on his face, branding him with its mark. He leans back in his chair, takes a deep breath, and she is almost jealous, for oxygen seems to have abandoned her utterly.

"Ioreth. If this is what all this nonsense is about, let me put it to rest now. You cannot become a guard. No matter what you set out to ‘prove’. It simply is not possible."

"But- I worked so hard I- Why can't I at least get a chance?"

He fixes her with his gaze, cold steel and ice. No trace of familiarity left, no sympathy, just some emotion harder and crueler than simple disappointment.

"This is how the world works, Ioreth." And with that he looks away, already deciding the end to the conversation. And what a conversation it was. Like all too many things, it was focused around him, so much so that there is no space for anyone else.

"Fine." She spits, surging to her feet. "I won't be a guard. I'll join the army-"

"They'll never take you." He says, quietly assured. Almost smug in his tone. She hates it.

"I'll become a Ranger then."

Her father's on his feet now, taking full advantage of every inch of his extra height. "Don't you dare." He growls. "I did not raise you to become some heathen wild woman."

"You barely raised me at all!" She shouts, and her feet are already moving, and she's out the door before her father can manage to dance around his desk.

"Ioreth!" He shouts this time, panic staining his voice.

And she runs. Out the door, out the barracks, into the streets, running on and on until she's almost out of the city. People stare. She can feel the weight of it, surprise and judgement. Still she runs. Down down down. Until the streets barely count as streets. Until she finds the most run down tavern she can. The kind of place you'd find a Ranger, if the unkind rumors are true.

She can see him when she arrives. Picture perfect. Unshaven, unwashed, the only thing clean on him a shining sliver brooch, nursing a mug of ale, looking like he'd been there for days without moving.

She slides in next to him, pays no notice to the glare he treats her with.

"You're a Ranger, yeah?" She asks, instinctively lowering her voice.

"What's it to you?" He growls.

"I want to join them."

He raises an eyebrow, relaxes slightly. "You’re not the usual type for that."

"Don't you take everyone, though?"

He stares at her for a moment, shakes his head. "True enough kid. True enough."

* * *

She’d never really left the Citadel before meeting that Ranger in the tavern. Never quite been rebellious enough to figure out a way to leave the city that wouldn’t end with her father’s fury raining down upon her from on high. She’d been outside the walls, sure, but had never strayed far enough from their looming shadow to call it leaving. Even that would have been enough to demand judgement, had he figured it out.

Now though. Now she’d abandoned the last member of her family, abandoned him and the world he had wanted her to confine herself in. She’d just about begged a stranger to recruit her into an organisation few trusted. If she been older, a little more world weary, she might not have taken that risk, might have considered how easy it would be for a slaver to put on a cloak and brood in a bar, waiting for desperate teenagers looking for an escape to join them.

But she gets lucky. The Ranger sits her on the same table as him, buys her a cheap mug of water-thin ale, gestures at her to sit, whispers at her to just drink when she looks confused. He plays the part of an unshaven loner well, easily blending into the background of this nameless bar. She would have believed that’s all he was too, were it not for how many unthinking travellers linger near him spreading their secrets, tongues made smooth by alcohol, and the subtle calculating smile she catches on his face at a particularly interesting story about a lord several townships over, one complete with disappearing citizens and mysterious bribes.

The Ranger stands up a few minutes after that, throws some coin on the table, makes a show of stumbling outside, Ioreth rushing to steady his drunken gait. No eyes follow them. A worn out drunk stumbling onto the streets is nothing surprising, even if he is a Ranger.

A few streets away he straightens up, brushes off his cloak, neatly folds away the drunk persona. He notices her looking and laughs quietly. “Just an act, kid. I poured most of that muck onto the floor.” He notices her mild confusion, smiles craftily. “No one thinks to watch their mouth around the drunk brooding Ranger.”

* * *

The Ranger’s name is Aerlholm, it turns out. He’s in the city gathering what information he can find, which, when pressed, he admits is mainly just him sitting in bars playing the part of the washed-out loner, hoping someone there is dumb enough to spill something interesting. Walking through the dead streets, he whispers stories he’s gathered over the last few weeks. Most of them are likely irrelevant to the Rangers, just sordid tales about nobles from their servants, or outlandish stories from seamen, claiming responsibility for this great dead or another. After a while, she’s whispering back some of her own, stories about foolish guardsmen falling into vats of washing and the like.

It’s only when they reach the city gates, and Aerlholm quietly buys an extra mare from the stables, insisting they begin travel immediately, that she realises how long its been since she talked to anyone that didn’t care who she was. Didn’t just see her as the Guard Captain’s delusional daughter.

Not since Reilan died.

It’s nice.


	2. Chapter 2

Years pass, smoothly, fast enough that she barely recognises how swift time changes. Training with the Rangers takes her across the continent, and the cities and towns blur in her head when she tries to think of them. Even after she’s acknowledged as a full Ranger the movement doesn’t stop, her Captain sending her out on solo missions days after she returns from the last.

Not all Rangers are like Aerlholm, it seems. Not quietly crafty, taking surprises as opportunities. Her captain, Hralt, likes order, his quarters full of meticulously detailed maps, doesn’t like Ioreth pointing out suggestions to him whenever she enters to gain orders. The backtalk gives her more than just his glares and biting words, and after some of the more vocal disagreements she notices others treating her different, the blacksmith forgetting to repair her chainmail, the stablemaster mysteriously absent when she arrives to collect her horse. It’s nothing explicit, but enough that she’s suspicious. Enough that she stops arguing against Hralt’s orders, starts ignoring the parts of them she disagrees with.

He seems smugly pleased by her shift in attitude, at least until the letters come in, lords complaining about her late arrival, villager’s scrambling together enough coin to send a simple note of thanks through after she saves them from a small band of bandits, small reveals of her quiet rebellion.

In one of the few moments she’s back in their base, Aerlholm catches her by the arm, waits until they are alone and warns her to be careful. Tells her that Hralt has more than just noticed her disobedience. That almost every senior Ranger is at least vaguely aware of it by now, that she’s building up a reputation as a troublemaker.

She points out every success she’s had, all the times her ignorance of the set rules went her way. Aerlholm just shakes her head, tells her to be careful.

In the end, she ignores his advice. Continues down her own path, begins to avoid returning to Hralt after missions, sends him letters instead, informs him about the next incident she’s investigating, tells him to forward any orders out to wait for her at an inn in the nearest city.

He does it for a while, his letters written in a terse hand, the missions he gives her rapidly becoming more and more difficult. Then, for a couple months, they stop, and she hears no word from him. Ioreth continues sending reports in, receiving not even the slightest acknowledgement in return.

Not until she enters a city to find a messenger waiting for her at the gates, his lips drawn tight. He hands her a letter, not even waiting for her to open it before he walks away. Theres only a single line within, written in a hand she doesn’t recognise, commanding her to return to base immediately. Without hesitation, without detours.

It may as well already have her sentence written out.

Aerlholm meets her a handful of miles away from the base, insists on accompanying her. His quiet humour is gone, his stories dried up, and now there is only silence. He stays with her until they reach Hralt’s quarters, where he stops. Silence remains for a while, weighing down on them, until he reaches out and pulls her into a quick hug.

“I’m sorry Ioreth.” He says. “I did what I could. I promise.” And he walks away.  
Ioreth turns and enters Hralt’s quarters. It’s too late for regret, too late to reconsider every action she could have taken. There’s only judgement left, waiting for her.

Inside, several figures look up as she enters. She only recognises Hralt, but the quality of the men’s armour, and their heavy gazes are enough to communicate their rank.

“Ioreth.” One says, folding his arms, “We need to discuss your actions over the past year.”

Her stomach sinks as reality sinks in. She should have known. She should have expected that her every act of rebellion could lead to nowhere but here, to disgrace. Hralt glares at her, and the instinct to confront him rises in her chest, but she shoves it back down.

“After much consideration, from both your current captain and... outside sources, we have come to a decision,” the man continues, glances at his companions, who nod at him, “Your defiance of orders demands action, and yet many of your decisions have brought aid to those who need it most. As such, we have decided to transfer you to the base along the wall with Mordor, to serve as Captain.”

Hralt splutters in anger as soon as the promotion is mentioned, but a swift look from one of the men silences him immediately, and he stalks out instead, pointedly refusing to look her in the face, and she is left alone with the commanders. She knows what this is, really. It’s an exile, a way to keep a troublemaker quiet, inconsequential. For a moment, she considers just leaving, abandoning the Rangers, starting her life anew once more. But, really, there’s no guarantee that anywhere she could run to would grant her a better chance than this. At least this way, she’s still a Ranger.

The commanders keep neutral expressions on their faces, and after a brief pause one of them speaks.

“You’d best set off now, Ioreth. You’ve a long journey ahead.”

* * *

The wall is quiet, for the most part. Which, in a way, should be a relief, should put Ioreth’s heart at ease. If the wall is quiet, no matter what happens in the rest of Mordor, they at least have a chance at surviving. A quiet wall means no Orc attacks, no dark lord rising to crush innocents.

But all the quiet does is make her restless. She’s never been one content to wait indefinitely. Not when the chance she’d be waiting for may never come, and all the waiting would mean nothing, time and patience wasted. She’d have escaped from a life with no opportunity only to land herself in another. From a Guard Captain’s rebellious daughter to a Captain in her own right, only one stuck in isolation, guarding a wall that may never again be breached in the memory of man.

Technically she’s under orders to always stay on the wall, always be ready to fend off the impossible, but, well. If her commanders thought it would be a good idea to send her miles and miles away from them, they would simply have to deal with the fact that she was never going to follow their orders to the letter.

She organises patrols leaving their base. Small ones at first, ones that last a mere handful of hours, an experiment to see if any of the men here are the type to complain about disregarding orders. It soon becomes obvious that not only do they care less for what their official orders are, but that they relish the opportunity to leave age old buildings choked with dust. Asbiorn in particular brightens up immensely. He was in charge of provisions, and of course he’d left base before, but rarely in company. He begins telling them stories, dreadful and unbelievable ones, but he speaks with such passion that everyone laughs at them regardless.

She notices her second in command, Gennan, laughing harder than most, smiling at Asbiorn with a warmth she hadn’t expected of him. He’d been stationed at the wall longer than most of them, arguably since he’d joined the rangers. He was still a young man, but he seemed closed off most times, like trust had burnt him badly before. It soothes Ioreth's heart to see him smile so earnestly.

He catches her looking, and his smile falters, but she moves next to him and nudges him lightly until he looks at her again. "You should talk to him." She mouths, and winks, and his face erupts scarlet, and she just laughs.

It feels strange, being here, so far from most of humanity, away from what she pictured her life being, and still feeling so content, like she's found her place to belong. And really, she thinks they all needed this. Needed the space, the air, the sense of freedom. They might feel ostracised, like this post is a punishment, or a way for most rangers to never see them again, but they're not alone. And here, listening to another bad joke from Asbiorn, watching Verdael show off his archery skills, almost impressing them until he once more trips over his own feet, sensing Gennan open up to them more and more, she begins to wonder if this is what it feels like to have a family.

* * *

They're not patrols, not really. They're mainly an excuse to escape. She had justified it to herself, every time she imagined her superiors berating her for this choice, that a patrol was a good idea, letting make sure that the area was not only safe from Orcs, but raiders as well. But here's the thing, the real truth: she had never expected to find anything.

And she'd certainly not expected to find a town in flames.

They hadn't even known it was there, hadn't known it existed until columns of smoke birthed it into their minds, newly discovered, but already almost destroyed.

The mirth dies from her men's eyes, and she can see them freeze as they realise what the smoke means.

"Form up, boys." She says, her voice snapping them awake.

"Ma'am?" Gennan says questionably, letting the word hang in the air.

She looks each of the in the eye, and jerks her head in the direction of the smoke. "We're going in. There may not be anyone left to save, but I'm not willing to risk that."

She's not certain they'll obey her. She can't guarantee it, not from men who still feel betrayed by their commanders, sent to live in the middle of nowhere with little chance of promotion or escape. Not from men who were more than eager to break the only orders they had been given by the brass, to stay at the wall and guard the wall.

But to the credit of each and every one of them, they just look at her and nod. There's steel in the gaze of every man there, and Ioreth has never been prouder of anyone before than she is of her men, who are ready and willing to charge into an uncertain situation on the off chance that they could save lives.

"Keep both eyes open." She orders, and starts off into a jog, heading towards the endless smoke.

* * *

Near the edge of the forest, she signals her men to stop, to get in position and wait. It's a small place. Was a small place, before it became little more than smoke on the wind, the final exhale of a settlement too small to be marked on any official map. They're too late for the town, too late to function as anything but harbingers of vengeance. But that’s enough, Ioreth says to herself, enough that if nothing else, the monsters who did this won’t live long enough to harm another soul

* * *

There’s blood on her hands. Her sword. Gore in her hair, her armour, her soul. It’s a funny thing isn’t it, our moralising. We are perfectly content with our choices, our internal justification, until we stand in the aftermath, drenched with blood. They weren’t good men. Ioreth knows that. In all likelihood their death is a mercy for the world. Ioreth knows that too. But it’s one thing to know, and another thing to accept it, especially when the reminder of what she’s done still lies fresh on her skin.

They’re stomping through the town now, kicking futilely at the ashes in the hopes that they’ll find someone. But they are alone. Alone in a corpse town, townsfolk and raiders alike lying strewn. It’s also likely that they will leave it this way, burnt and bloodied, with neither side being granted the honour of a funeral. They don’t have the time to do it, not when they are outnumbered by the dead ten to one.

She’s not the only one to recognise this, she’s sure. All hint of humour has faded from Gennan's face, and she can see him frown with more guilt than anger. Guilt at being too late to save them, for not even knowing the danger posed until it was too late, and for being unable to even grant them the simplest of funerals.

They don’t have the skill, nor the time.

There’s a creak of half burnt wooden boards, a skitter of a small stone, and the tension that she had so willingly abandoned returns with full force. She nudges Gennan lightly, and he passes the signal on. They fan out slightly, trying to make the movement inconspicuous. Ioreth hopes it's not more bandits, hopes that they haven't been led into and expertly crafted trap.

A small shadow darts across, charging out at them with a dagger that looks closer to a short sword in their small hands. Ioreth sidesteps away, giving herself time to figure out just what it is that is attacking them.

It’s a young boy, almost young enough to still be called child. There are streaks of ash covering his face, only clear where his tears have washed them away. They were wrong about there being no survivors, then. His hands shake, but he raises his knife once more, clearly intent on making another pass at them, despite the complete failure of his first attempt, but hesitates when she extends both her hands palm out towards him.

"We're not raiders." She says calmly. Slowly, so as not to frighten him more, she lifts one hand to the leaf on her cloak. "We're Rangers. We saw the smoke, but arrived to late to do anything but stop the men who did this. You have no reason to fear us."

The boy listens, and doesn’t move for a while. Just takes them in, judges them by sight to see if her words are true. Eventually he lowers the knife, and seems to deflate as he does. He’s still nowhere near calm, but the fact that he’s no longer raising a weapon is in itself a victory.

“Are they dead?” the boy asks. It’s a sharp question, almost poisonous. The words are too harsh to have been coming out of the mouth of one so young, but there’s nothing they can do now to wash away what he has already seen. He is so young, and yet he has already borne witness to a tragedy that would make most grown men crumble.

“They are.” She replies honestly.

He nods, a little too fast, like he’s trying to use the movement as a means to ground himself, prevent himself from falling apart in front of strangers. He drops his knife on the ground, the blade slipping through his fingers as if he no longer possessed the strength to so much as hold it.

They can’t leave him. The thought hits Ioreth fast, sets her mind to work. He is the sole survivor of a tragedy that occurs more often than it should. One that leaves young boys orphans of something worse than war: simple greed. So. They can’t leave him here, and yet there isn’t anywhere for him to go. If there’s another town nearby, there’s little way hope of finding it, bar stumbling across it by accident. And even if a single one of her men could manage the journey to one of the larger cities, she cannot afford to send to lose one, not when their numbers are so few.

There’s little choice in the matter but to take him with them back to the wall. Back to what is hopefully a station that will never see conflict again.

Because if it ever does… Well. They would have been kinder to have left him in the ashes.

Ioreth extends her hand, but doesn’t step closer to the boy, doesn’t push him into action. “Will you come with us?” She asks. He just stares at her hand, unmoving, unblinking. She continues, voice soft. “We have a base a few days walk from here. We can protect you.”

He takes her hand.

* * *

The boy’s name is Dirhael, they learn. Well, they learn when he starts talking again. It takes a while, to say the least. And none of them possess the steel to constantly prod at a kid who's been through so much already. So. It's slow progress, but it's progress.

They're surprised to say the least when Dirhael asks Verdael if he can try his bow. Verdael is beyond pleased by the implications, and while there was little he could do but refuse, his bow impossible to draw by a young untrained boy, he swiftly vowed to make a more suitable one once they return.

It's the brightest Dirhael has looked since they met him, and soon they are all volunteering to teach him something. Gennan offers to teach him how to throw knives, a favourite pastime during the frequent long nights, and Asbiorn does an impressive job of hyping up the excitements of cooking for soldiers. And after the fight at the village, not a single one so much as attempts to usurp the right to teach him the sword from her.

Ioreth lets him hold her sword for a few seconds, Dirhael struggling to keep it aloft for much longer. He's a little flustered by his failure, but there's determination in his eyes, a sheer stubbornness than she senses will take him far.

He hasn't smiled, not yet. But some of the dark clouds that he'd been soaked with have evaporated, and the hope is shining through. She's not delusional, she knows there'll still be bad days. But they won't all be. And next time someone tries to hurt him, he won't be defenceless. And he won't be alone.

There are worse things in the world, it seems, than being adopted by a band of Rangers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> meant to upload this yesterday but someone (me) wasted the whole day playing dark souls and sucking at it


	3. Chapter 3

In the years since she arrived, they've repaired the section of the wall they live in, fixed crumbling stonework and the half-rotten wood structures that had infested it before. It might still look like they're just parasites on the back of a greater being, but it's liveable.

Defendable too, should the need ever arise.

They're at their morning drills, using the widest section of the battlements, the early morning sun still too weak to drive away the mist that clings heavy, a cloying presence they'd almost wish to be free from, if it didn't transform the light into something beautiful.

She's practicing her archery with Verdael and Gennan. Verdael is as skilful as ever, landing almost every single shot where he wants it. The contrast between his breezy ease, and Gennan and Ioreth struggle, makes him laugh.

"How can you even aim at the target, man? I cannot even see it in this mist." Gennan complains, and Verdael just laughs louder.

"Archery isn't about seeing, my friend." He says smugly, and refuses to explain his words when they both prod him.

Between shots, she watches Dirhael and Asbiorn spar. He keeps up with Asbiorn, and while he is still young, and has not yet come into himself, not yet gained the skill or strength of an adult, he doesn't lack any enthusiasm. He's grown since they met, and she is proud of the man he will become. Proud, and almost guilty for it, that the boy she considers a son should be trapped here with her, trapped where his only chance to make something of himself would be to leave them far behind.

Ioreth did that same thing, when she was young. Left her father, her city, her sense of place in the world far behind for change. It was a spontaneous choice, and many would call it foolish. And while she doesn't regret it, doesn't even regret being isolated like this, she wouldn't want it for Dirhael. She doesn't want to imagine him lonely and out of place, watching all his optimism fade as his dreams shatter.

Asbiorn trips over a small piece of loose stone, and Dirhael presses forward while he's off guard, and points his sword at Asbiorn's chest, for the briefest second before he smiles and leans down, hand outstretched, to help Asbiorn to his feet.

"Nice job." Asbiorn says, clapping Dirhael on the back. "You may just have beat me even if I hadn't tripped."

"Of course." Dirhael says, a cheeky grin stretched over his face. "But even if that's trust, I know I'll never bake a pie better than the one you made last night."

"You might one day. We'll see."

"Dirhael!" Ioreth called out, lowering her bow as he turned to face her. "Nice footwork."

He swells with pride, enough so that he almost looks inflated, his chest becoming a blacksmith's bellows before it's allowed to exhale.

"Would you like to do a bit more training with me instead?" She asks. And really, truly, it's only half an excuse to escape the embarrassment that is archery with Verdael.

He runs over straight away, just about bouncing his way over. She moves to meet him, trading her bow for Asbiorn's training sword as they pass. She gives Asbiorn an encouraging look as they pass, trying to tell him that yes, once more Verdael is putting their skills to shame.

"Show me your stance." Ioreth instructs, picking over the minutiae as he does so. He’s good, really, but not perfect. He won't come close to that until he's had a few more years. But for what it is, while he may not be perfect, he shows potential that if given those extra few years, that potential will make good on its promise, and he'll be a truly great swordsman.

"Loosen your grip a little." She says, and he does little more than blink at her. "Swordsmanship is not about being strong, Dirhael. It's about being smart."

* * *

Here’s the thing about isolation: it insulates you. Makes you believe none of the world’s terrors could possibly reach you, harm you. It fosters this sense with every step in abandoned towns, or forests new to human touch. Every glance at a map will convince you that here, miles and miles and miles away from any city or town of note, you can be ignored, forgotten, passed over. But, here’s the other thing about isolation: there’s no one to run to when you are inevitably proved wrong.

At first, it’s just an unseasonably strong storm. The sky rolls in heavy and black, the growing darkness a warning as it sweeps in closer.

Gennan swears at the sight of it, reminds Ioreth that their early planning session on the battlements left several precious maps and documents behind. It’s beyond even a matter of expense, or how much travel would be required to replace them, as most of those documents had been painstakingly constructed over a period of years. One of a kind, requiring months of painful effort to reconstruct.

The looming threat of tedious repeated work hangs over Ioreth’s head, spurs her to action, and she sends her men off to work on the smaller jobs required to prepare for the storm, but instructs Dirhael to follow her.

With the speed the storm moves at, they immediately set off in a run, twisting through hallways that years of use have imprinted on their minds. Away from the windows, the thick storm insulates them from any reminders of the coming storm, and yet all the quiet serves to do is heighten their anxiety, quicken their hurried steps.

By the time they burst onto the battlements, sunlight is all but gone, and they can feel the proximity of the storm on their skin.

“Grab everything as fast as you can,” Ioreth instructs, watching Dirhael nod, “don’t worry about creases or small tears, just grab it.”

“Got it.” He replies, hesitating a second before adding a “Captain.”

It makes her wonder for a second, hope distantly that he doesn’t just see her as his Captain, see himself as just another soldier. He’s 17 now, the same age she was when she first joined the Rangers, but looking back she knows how young she was, how little she really understood of the world. He’s still just a boy, thrown into violence in a young age, rescued and raised by a group of exiled Rangers. She hadn’t said it before, hadn’t made it clear of where she thought they stood. That maybe he’d already had a mother, already had parents before, but with them and his village turned to ash, she’d tried to fill that gap, play that role in his life.

But now wasn’t the time, clearly. Later, though. Later. She’d make it clear, say once and for all that she thought of him as a son, even if they weren’t tied by blood. For now, they run, skidding to a stop next to the papers, throwing each one in their arms, not caring to be neat, or if things were in order. Better to be forced to reorder papers then to rewrite them from scratch.

They’ve only just picked each scrap of paper as rain begins to fall, almost gentle at first, before it quickly ascends into leaden drops that smash into the stone. Running is more awkward like this, but desperation fuels them, and they reach the safety of stone walls with papers only slightly dampened.

“Good job, Dirhael.” She says, nudging him with a shoulder, smiling as he grins at her in pride, “A minute later and we would-”

Something dark moves on the battlements, and her words trail off. By now, the rain is pouring down in buckets, the sky darker than inside a cave, but still she narrows her eyes, waits for more movement. She hopes it’s her eyes playing games, just her years of suspicion creating false enemies out of a small shift in the rain, but after a moment, she watches as another shadow moves, swinging itself over the wall, joining the other shadow, creeping closer.

“Who’s there?” Ioreth yells, and the shadows freeze, then run. Towards them. This close to the torchlight from within the corridor she can make out misshapen teeth, crude armour, wicked grins. Orcs. Not just two, either, she notes as yet another swings onto the wall.

“Go.” She pushes Dirhael behind her, further into the building. “Get the others.” Dirhael pauses for a second, torn, and she pushes him again, turning back just fast enough to block a swing from one of the Orcs. “Go now Dirhael!”

He runs off, and she focuses on the Orcs in front of her, dodging a stab from the second Orc. She kicks him in the stomach, and he stumbles back briefly, long enough for her to stab the first Orc, black blood spurting onto her armour as he gasps in silent pain. The second Orc tries again, charging in, his attack all too easy to side step, and she swings her sword at his neck as he passes, chopping halfway through. Not enough to decapitate, but enough to kill.

The third Orc rapidly approaching, her fingers pick up one of her throwing knives from the strap on her armour, send it flying with enough speed to sever the creature’s windpipe, and he collapses onto his knees.

Carefully, she begins to walk towards where she saw the first Orc appear, expects to see a poorly constructed ladder waiting. Doesn’t expect a second ladder, then a third, to thud up against the wall, Orc after Orc pouring over the top.

* * *

She holds them off for a while, the cheap, rough iron arms and armour of the Orcs little match for a Ranger, especially not one who’s spent the decade since enlisting fighting bandits. Her sword is sharp, her stance strong, but more and more keep pouring over the walls. Thirsting for her blood.

And her men still haven’t arrived. Perhaps her sense of time has slipped away, but the corpses of Orcs stack up on the battlements, black blood sticking to ancient stones, and still none arrive. She shouldn’t stress about them, should just focus here, on surviving, on keeping the torrential rain of Orcs from reaching her friends, but it’s not enough. Not when she knows there shouldn’t be any task inside the base that would prevent them from assisting her. She knows them, long years spent in the company of so few having made their habits beyond familiar to her, and this, this she cannot explain away. Not without a steadily growing fear for their safety.

In the distance, she hears an explosion, large enough to shake stone, a flash of light and colour that burns bright for the seconds before the ever-present rain extinguishes it.

It’s all she needs to make up her mind.

An Orc swings for her head, and she ducks under it, a quick swing removing his hand from his wrist, and she kicks it back, the Orc crashing into several behind it, and without a second’s pause she turns and runs, ignores the furious bellows thundering behind her. She slams the heavy wooden door behind her, sliding the bolt into place a handful of seconds before the first angry fists begin to pound upon it.

Inside, she rushes, boots slamming on stone as she throws herself through corridors, hoping for the impossible, that her men are all safe, that the door above will hold, that they will all survive this. Her footsteps are loud, too loud, a mistake she regrets the instant she turns a corner to find an Orc standing, his head tilted in thought. She swings herself back around the corner before the creature turns, but she can hear him stalking towards her, the sound of laboured breaths and metal scraping on stone. He steps out in front of her, and, in the split second before it turns its head and sees her, she rushes on it, sticks a knife into its stomach, muffles its dying groans with her hand as she gently sets its body against the wall.

A quick glance back around the corner informs her of the other two Orcs present, far enough away to have remained unalerted. Quietly, she moves through the room, crouching behind the wooden crates they’d used this room to store. The first makes the mistake of leaning back for a moment on the crate Ioreth hides behind, unaware of her presence until she clamps a hand over his mouth and drags him backward, slitting his throat.

She’s a scant few metres away from the last when a figure jumps out, spears the creature in the side with their blade, missing anything lethal by a handful of centimetres. The Orc hisses, raises a mace above his head just as Ioreth sweeps behind him, grabbing his throat and twisting a knife through his windpipe, the Orc gagging and collapsing to his knees.

Dirhael stares at her in shock before he rushes forward, wrapping his arms around her in a brief hug.

“I thought- Gennan was-” He takes in a slow, shuddering breath. “They came in from the other side as well. Too many. I don’t think we can kill them all, not after-” He stops, words escaping him.

“Listen Dirhael,” she starts, her voice as steady as she can force it to be, “We can still save this. Are the others still alive?”

He shakes his head violently, and she believes him from the look in his eyes alone.

“Alright then. We’re going to sneak out through the kitchen, and run into the forest. Once we get there, they shouldn’t be able to find us. But listen, if anything happens to me, I want you to run, and not look back. Do you understand?”

He nods. It’s small, reluctant, but still, he nods.

* * *

The corridors are almost completely empty, the small rooms they cut through containing no more than a small handful of Orcs, easy enough to sneak by without detection. There’s a faint worry, itching at the edge of her mind, reminding her that by all rights there should be more, that their base was attacked by no less than a small army. But here, in disused rooms and unlit corridors, she shoves the thought down, buries it, focuses on making their way out.

Their base is a rabbit warren, everything connected to everything else, easy for someone who hasn’t spent the last 7 years living here to get lost. She tells herself that, as they enter the storeroom adjoining the kitchen, find not a single Orc hidden inside.

It’s too early to believe they’re safe, so she signals Dirhael to be quiet, to wait as she creeps ahead, steps into a kitchen that is also, empty. She’s about to turn, wave Dirhael towards her, but catches movement out of the corner of her eye, moves in time to see a spiked mace swing towards her, too late to even make an attempt to stop it before it crashes into her side, sends her tumbling to the ground.

She can see Dirhael stare, wide-eyed, and she waves at him desperately, glad when he turns, less glad when another figure steps out into the storeroom, grabs Dirhael by the throat.

Her hands are on the ground, pushing up, but she doesn’t get further than her knees before the Orc behind her slams the hilt of his weapon into the back of her head, and she sees nothing but black.

* * *

She wakes on the battlements, the storm’s fury faded to a small drizzle, enough to keep the ground slick. She’s lying on the ground, hands bound behind her, surrounded by Orc after Orc after Orc. From what she can see of them from the ground, they’re not like any she’s seen before, their armour neater, their weapons less crude. They ignore her almost entirely, their leader speaking words she thinks should be able to understand, but can’t, not here, not like this.

She shifts lightly, and an Orc presses a metal boot against her spine, pins her to the ground. She catches a small movement to her left, sees Dirhael lying next to her, no less trapped than she is. His eyes are wide, flickering like a terrified animal. They only settle when he sees her looking, but the terror doesn’t leave his face.

“Mum?” He whispers, breaking off as an Orc leans a spiked knee into his back.

"Look at me." She says. Strong. No hint of a quiver in her voice. It sounds too normal, too distant to her ears, like she's not the one saying them, even if she can feel the vibration of her voice in her jaw.

Dirhael does. Eyes on her. Instinctual. Responding to the way her voice sounds. Like a command. Like this is just another practice session. Just another day. That give it an hour, and this hell will fade away. 20 minutes and normality will return.

"It's going to be alright. I'll fix it." There's stone against her cheek, claws in her hair, a heavy boot on her back. But she keeps her jaw strong, her voice steady.

And he believes her. She can see it in his eyes. Nightmares have crawled out of their dreams to stalk the world, and he just looks at her calm demeanour and believes her. He is too young. For all his skill, all the hours at practice, he is still a child. And he hasn't learnt yet that parents lie, and with the innocence of a child he stares her in the eyes and believes her. Even surrounded by corpses. Splashed with blood. Stained with terror. He believes.

Even when the blade slits his throat. Even when the light flows from his eyes faster than the blood from his body.

She has never betrayed anyone so utterly.

 She is next. She knows that, but to her mind, in this instant, such a realisation feels distant, a fact she holds only at the very edge of her mind. She never wanted to die. She had no real plans for the course of her life, but she had never quite wanted it to end.

But now, with death in sight, now with its breath just about caressing her, when she's inches off joining Reilan, joining her son, her men, she doesn't care. She doesn't care about the blade at her throat, the enemies that surround her, and so she just thrashes and growls. There's no plan she can implement, no strategy, just primordial howling, but even the basest of emotions can do nothing to free her.

She is trapped. Sentenced. And there is no longer a reason for calm, no reason for thought.

"I'll kill you." She spits as she is dragged to her knees.

They pay no mind to her words. There’s no reason left, no hope, and so she keeps screaming. The blade that slit her son's throat is pressed against hers, still wet with his blood, and she twists viciously again.

"I will-" her voice drowns into gurgles as steel bites into her, overflowing her lungs with her own blood, and there is nothing and there is everything, and she is gone.

Gone, just like the rest of her family.

* * *

She is empty. She is the air between breaths, the silence between words. She is nothingness itself.

But, with a flash of silver that changes. And she is everything, the universe spread between her fingertips. She touched oblivion, and now, even the simplest idea of life feels infinitely powerful.

She breathes in, and after everything, she is whole, and she is alive.

* * *

It takes some time before her senses have returned enough for her to open her eyes, look around. Her head feels foggy, her mind refusing to believe that she has just died and returned to life, her brain preferring to imagine that everything that happened before was a delusion. And maybe she would actually truly believe that, if she hadn't been lying on a shimmering tower, tall enough for her to see for miles over a country only the doomed ever enter. Mordor.

She stands to her feet, shakes her head, brushes her fingers over her neck, finding no wound or even blood there. Just skin.

She hears someone clear their throat, and she turns to find a figure made of the same shimmering material as the tower. He is, or at least once was, a tall elf, but made more of fog and mist than flesh and blood, grey and transparent, and he looks at her with an emotion she can't read, too distracted by the way he just about glows against the darkening sky.

She has questions. Questions in questions, questions beyond mere questions, but when she opens her mouth all she can manage to say is "What?"

"I am sorry." The elf says. "But this is just the beginning of what you must go through."

"I don't understand." She says, and she takes a step back from him, but keeps her eyes focused on him, slicing him apart as if he were a sparring opponent, noting his crown, in an old style she certainly does not recognise, his build, tall compared to most humans, yes, but more well-built than most elves would be, no stranger to hard work. Still; his stance is open, and he’s unarmed. Whatever he is, he’s not a threat, not right now.

But all her patience has been washed away by the storm. Torn apart by last night’s nightmares, dreams without explanations, a magic she has no experience with.

“Why am I here?” she asks, gaze heavy on the stranger. “Where have you taken me?”

His lips draw tight, and he gestures towards the land below the tower, dried and dark. “I cannot possibly hope to answer all your questions here, but for now, this is Mordor. I’m afraid I do not know all the intimate details of yesterday’s events, but I can tell you what I do know: Sauron is attempting a return, and sent some of his closest followers here, to perform a ritual to bind my spirit to his, grant him the strength he needs to walk free on Middle Earth once more. The ritual went awry, bound me to you instead, stopped you from moving on. Now Middle Earth is rapidly corrupting under the spreading influence of Sauron and his Orcs. The Uruk who did this is but a single piece of this plan.”

Ioreth is quiet, for a few moments. There’s too much to consider, too much confusion, too much uncertainty. Her mind proves incapable of considering every piece of information at once, keeps returning back to the wall, to blood washed away by a supernatural storm, to the cruel creatures who invaded her home, slaughtered her family, with no pause to regret the harm they caused. Her thoughts linger back to that final moment, her hopelessness, her loss, her failure to act in any way, how she died with nothing but fury in her mind.

“I want them all dead.” She seethes, watching as silent approval flashes onto the elf’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been working on the draft of this story for.... A long time, and like an idiot, I got attached to the characters I intended from the start to kill off. Rest in peace boys you deserved better
> 
> My internet isn't very reliable at the moment and I'm travelling a lot so sorry if there's any major delays lol


	4. Chapter 4

The elf, Celebrimbor, complains when she insists they return to the wall, but something cold and metal coils deep within her chest, it's grasp tight on her heart, cementing her decision.

The wall rises in front of her, this side of it like the dark side of the moon, familiar yet beyond strange. The sight of it just spurs her on further, ignites a desperate fire in the pit of her stomach that drives her over the wall, landing her in the midst of a silent battlefield.

She sees Asbiorn, lying against a wall, his armour torn open, his torso deep black, his head limp. Dead.

She staggers a little at the sight, the knowledge that maybe the spirit was right, maybe what she'd seen was real, but she doesn't want to believe. She can't accept the cost of this reality.

She moves past the Asbiorn's corpse, past the bodies of more and more Orcs, of friends in pieces, eyes hollow, throats torn, spirits fled. Gennan, his hand still wrapped tight around the handle of a sword thrust through the heart of an Orc, his eyes glassy and hollow, the armour he spent careful hours repairing and polishing stained deep black. Verdael, quiver empty, treasured bow shattered, head thrown several metres away from his body.

Friends she treasured more than anything, brothers she loved more than her own family, men she would have burnt down heaven for, lie broken and soulless, bodies desecrated.

She can feel the elf walking beside her, staring down with judgement in his eyes, a judgement she doesn't know because she refuses to look at him, refuses to admit he was right, that her hopes were nothing but futile whispers.

The corridor opens onto the battlements, and her knees almost give way, because every aspect in the same as she remembered it to be, every body laid out, undisturbed since she herself had perished on this very stone.

Finally, her eyes set upon his corpse, and she can't stop a sob from tearing out of her throat at the sight of her son lying broken and bloodied on the very ground he once called home.

"I did not lie-" the ghost begins, but she rushes past him, gathers Dirhael in her arms. He is as cold as the the stone he had lain upon, colder than he'd been any other time she'd held him.

"No, no, no no no." She says, rocking back and forth with him in her arms. "God, no."

She'd failed. She'd failed more utterly as a parent than she'd thought was possible. She taken a boy from the ashes of his old life, his old family, and brought him into a new one, gave him a mother, and more uncles than one boy could ever dream of having. She'd given him hope, and a dream, but in the end all she'd really given him was a cold, lonely death, surrounded by an enemy his mother had sworn would never hurt him.

She presses Dirhael's corpse tighter into her, and wishes, wants harder than anything else in her life, that she could bring him back. Trade her second life for his. Because what use is a second chance for her, when to get it she had to lose everything, with no chance of getting it back?

Dirhael's blood, as slow moving as his heartbeat, still sticks and sinks into her armour, and she knows in her heart, no matter how well she cleans it it will never come off. She will be forever stained.

"I'm sorry." The ghost says quietly. "But I did not lie."

Ioreth breathes in deep, almost regretting it when all that enters her lungs in air stained with blood and loss, and stands slowly, sweeping her arms under Dirhael to carry him, his head lolling back limp as she does so.

"I'm going to burn his body." Ioreth tells him, her voice amazingly neutral. The ghost opens his mouth to argue, but she silences him with a look. "I must say goodbye. Do not deny me this."

Something flashes in his eyes, recognition of some kind, an emotion swift but painful, and he backs down, nods.

* * *

There's more than enough shattered furniture to send off all of her soldiers, and still she gathers more than she needs and stacks it on one of the watchtowers, wood enough to build a fire bright enough to challenge the stars, for a time.

The ghost doesn't comment as she works, just lingers in the corner of her eyes.

She drags the Rangers' corpses, lays each one on the pile, until finally, she gently lays Dirhael down on top of the wood, next to her brothers, brushes his hair away from his eyes, and lights the fire.

And then she leaves, snatching up the shattered remains of Dirhael's sword and climbing down the wall almost as fast as she climbed up it, running as fast as she can away from the fire on top of the wall. It will attract attention, that she knows, and she'd rather not die again when the Orc patrols arrive to investigate.

* * *

Hunting is a a delicate business, involving the constant avoidance of Orc patrols, which is harder to do than you'd expect when your trying to follow tracks. It'd probably be easier if Celebrimbor was willing to help, but he seems to have an irritating habit of only showing himself when it was unavoidable.

She's not even entirely sure if she needs food, really, given what she is now. Yet no matter how many times her soul crawls away from death, her stomach still hungers.

And if she's honest, she doesn't want to test it, doesn't want to feel herself slowly starve. It probably says something about her now, that she's more willing to die a hundred times at the end of some sneering Orc's rusted blade, than have to wait, curled in on herself in the corner of some crumbling ruin while she rots away slowly.

And yeah, it's nice to have a habit, some crucial thing to do that doesn't involve the pursuit of revenge, where every step, every flash of a blade reminds her of what she's lost. Who she's lost.

So, she's hunting. Augmenting her skills with the ethereal powers of Celebrimbor, even if he remains silent. It's a bit of a trade, really, let's her see clearer but fills her head with smoke, her ears with rushing storms.

It stops her from hearing the clash of fighting until she's too close to ignore it, and curiosity snaps her back into reality, pushes her closer to the source of the noise.

She leans over the side of the almost-cliff she's standing on, and is greeted by a sight that almost sends her tumbling off the side.

There's Orcs. Several. But what's more surprising than that is the fact that the fighting is not between two Orcs seeking to advance themselves, but rather a group of snarling Orcs and an armoured woman.

She's skilled. That much is clear within a few seconds. Yet there are enough Orcs surrounding her that even a skilled warrior would be in danger.

Ioreth has frequently found herself in the same situation, but without much of the danger, for she no longer needs to heed the threat of death.

There's a mystery to this woman that Ioreth cannot easily solve. A question with many parts, and no clear answer.

No slave would have armour like that, or know how to so quickly and smoothly dodge an attack like that. Yet no one normal would willingly step into Mordor, especially not alone.

She is immediately a mystery. And something about it, the puzzle without a solution, makes Ioreth hungry in a different way.

So, Ioreth does something a little brash. She throws herself off the side, breaks her fall with a boot to an Orc's back, a knife in his throat soon after. The Orcs all stagger back, and the woman takes advantage of the surprise, thrusting her sword in the back of one who gets too close.

They make eye contact. It's brief, but like lightning, striking like a bolt of pure energy into the night. The woman nods quickly, and she is moving again, and Ioreth follows suit, focuses on the surrounding Orcs, whose surprise seems to have melted into molten fury.

There's blood on her skin, staining her already stained armour with its touch. But none of it is hers. She is far too used to the rhythms of fighting to be even scratched. Her old Commander, back when she was still a recruit, had used to say that what makes a good warrior was not hours upon hours of training. It was killing. It was fighting with a warrior, with the promise that only one of them could survive, and emerge victorious. Well. Ioreth has been fighting her way through Mordor for months, and she knows he was almost right. Killing does do a lot to make you a good warrior. But what makes you truly great is dying yourself.

And Ioreth knows death better than any human alive.

So she uses the skills she learnt in training, but she knows, deep in her heart, how each Orc feels when she spills their lifeblood.

Soon enough the rest of the Orcs run, desperate and frightened, of the carnage and the women who dwell in it like they were born to it.

Ioreth wipes down her sword, as much as she can, before returning it to its sheath. She almost jumps when a hand grabs her shoulder, but she relaxes once she sees it's source is merely the woman she'd been fighting with just moments before.

"I appreciate the assistance." The woman says, her voice cool yet friendly.

"You're welcome." Something glimmers in the other woman's eyes, the beginnings of a smile maybe, and it greases Ioreth's tongue, keeps her talking. "I don't normally see any humans around, so I couldn't resist."

And the smile reveals itself, almost unnatural given their circumstances, covered in blood while in a land of death, but Ioreth appreciates it nonetheless.

"I'm Lithariel." The woman says, stepping away slightly in order to extend a hand.

"Ioreth." Ioreth replies, accepting the handshake. Part of her mind is still reeling, not yet willing to accept that she's actually seen a friendly human, still convinced that she's under a delusion. But Lithariel's touch is grounding and steady. Real. And she can't deny her presence any longer.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ioreth. Even if it must be whilst we are both stinking of death and covered in Orc blood."

"Had we met any other way, I wager I'd be more suspicious." Ioreth replies, dry.

"True. But still, something makes me think meeting anyone in a place like this is more than coincidence, and more like fate."

"You think so?"

"I do." Lithariel says, and her eyes sweep over Ioreth quickly, her eyes sharp, clear, like a hunter looking for tracks. It worries her, makes her think she'll be able to see who Ioreth really is.

But Lithariel just smiles. "I do." She repeats, this time with a small smile.

* * *

Lithariel offers Ioreth a night at her current camp, and Ioreth is almost surprised by her willingness to accept. She can't quite pinpoint why, whether the promise of an easy place to camp is enough for her to conquer any fears of the company of strangers. Or if she was just so starved for human contact that she doesn't want to let the first human she's seen in weeks just walk away.

But then again, maybe it's something about Lithariel herself. Another warrior, another woman, alone in Mordor, bathed in as much bloodshed as she. Maybe she just wants someone to connect with, even if it is in so grisly a topic.

Lithariel leads the way, walking only just ahead to be able to indicate the path, but close enough that they are still walking together.

And close enough apart that Ioreth has enough space to study her, in quick glances. She doesn't want to stare, doesn't want to do anything untoward towards someone she has only just met.

And maybe she does just wants to look at Lithariel. There is some unnamed quality about the woman that makes her almost magnetising to the eyes, which is something Ioreth really does not want to have to explain.

"Why are you in Mordor?" Lithariel asks.

Ioreth freezes. She's not sure yet how Lithariel would react to her story, not quite sure if she's able to tell it yet.

Lithariel glances over at her, seems to realise that the topic may be a bit too personal, and seems to step back slightly.

"I'm a bit curious, that's all. There aren't too many people around here, as I'm sure you've noticed."

"I have noticed that." Ioreth returns with a slight smile. "It's a bit of a long story, really. And most of it doesn't sound true."

Lithariel pauses a little, tilts her head back a little as she thinks, and Ioreth finds herself a bit too transfixed on the way her hair brushes past her neck as she moves.

"Can I at least get a hint? I can try to explain why I'm here, if that'll help."

The air is heavy, weighing down her tongue as she breathes it in.

"The simplest way to put it is revenge. Orcs killed the people I considered my family, left them to rot for the sake of some bullshit ritual I don't understand, and I'd like to give them peace."

Ioreth isn't even sure why she is telling Lithariel anything, by all likelihood the two of them will split paths tomorrow and never set eyes on each other again. Mordor is a big place after all.

Still, talking is nice. Even if the topic cuts a touch too close to her heart.

"I'm sorry about your family." Lithariel says, but almost shockingly she seems to actually mean it, emotion thrumming lightly through her voice. "I'm here because of mine too. Orcs patrols have entered my homeland, attacked my people, scarred the landscape. I fear they mean to invade, to wipe us out. I'm here to find as much information as possible, to learn what their plans are for my people. And yet I feel the fool, running into a foreign land with no real thought or plan."

"It's brave." Ioreth says quietly, and Lithariel turns to her, smiles softly.

"I'm glad you think so."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact number 1: apparently no one else has written about Dirhael, if AO3 is to be believed.
> 
> Fun fact number 2: the title of this is really just a bad joke I'd used as a working title for this story, and only mildly better than the other title I used seeing as that was "Lithariel is a total babe- Ioreth 2017"


	5. Chapter 5

It's odd calling it beautiful, what they have now. They're not in a place that allows beauty to roam wild, not a place that fosters anything but the ugliest of thoughts that dwell in the human heart. Ioreth had thought of a Mordor as a place with sickness in the very air, a disease that infects you just by the merit of you breathing it in too long.

Lithariel changes her mind.

Beings with her is just so _easy_. It's easier to stay with her than to so much as think of leaving, of returning to isolation. Ioreth never dreamt of finding anything good here in this wasteland of a country, but now she has a blade by her side in fights, a companion in cold nights, and a friend that drags her mind away from death and revenge. At least for a while.

Lithariel is strong where Ioreth is sleek. She fights like a knight, like a guardian, while a Ioreth fights like an assassin, a Ranger. She fights like someone who cannot afford to lose. It's magnetising, really, to someone like Ioreth, who had gotten so used to being reckless, because she is a woman with nothing to her name, who owns nothing she cannot gladly part ways with. Her life had become an endless spiral of death, both hers and others.

Litharirl reminds her that there is still life in this world. Something worth fighting for, beyond revenge.

And so, it's easy. Easy to let Lithariel stay. To show her where the Orc camps lie, and let her sword protect her in return. Easy to get addicted to the comfort of a companion in the long, bitterly cold nights.

* * *

At some point the formality of sitting across the fire from each other melts away, an old memory. It's practical, she tells herself, to sit close. It reduces what noise they make, conserves heat in a time when it is badly needed. She knows she is simply disguising her desires with these excuses, but no part of her wants to recognise the reality just yet.

It's scary, to get attached this fast. To want Lithriel to never leave her side. Ioreth's mission leaves little room for the quiet emotions necessary for a friendship to foster, leaves her open to greater hurt. Ioreth has survived so far because she has already had everything she values stripped from her. Even death itself holds no weight. And now she is in the presence of a woman so unlike the creature she is now. One filled with light, who holds onto hope with a bitter strength she is constantly surprised by. Someone with everything to lose, and yet is still willing to stand up against it all, to put everything she values on the line to protect her family.

Ioreth is a little jealous.

* * *

They are ambushed on a mountain path. Well, perhaps it would be more accurate to say they were attacked, seeing as the bellows and rushed scramble of the Orcs seems to suggest that the Orcs are just as surprised to see them.

Lithariel and Ioreth don't hesitate. Ioreth rolls behind an archer, stabbing him through the ribs with a quick vicious thrust as he gapes stupidly at her, and metres away Lithariel blocks a clumsy swing, and in one clean movement she cleaves off an Orc's head.

To their credit, the other Orcs don't seem to so much as hesitate at the sight of two of their comrades so efficiently slaughtered.

But, they do have the advantage of numbers. The crowd is easily more than Ioreth would've ever been comfortable facing alone, but she trusts Lithariel.

There's a rhythm to it, a comfort in knowing she is no longer alone, one that is realised strongest in a fight like this. They are both warriors at heart, their characters carved by warfare, and together they are a whirlwind. Together they are a force to be feared, an army of two.

Too late Ioreth realises that she has gained something to fear. That now she does, in fact, possess something precious that could be lost.

Ioreth is too slippery, too liquid for the Orcs to surround. Lithariel is not quite so lucky. She is a skilled swordswoman, and the Orcs are not, and she is not so inflexible to not know how to dodge, but there is an Orc behind her, face twisted by huge teeth that cannot entirely sit within his mouth, and he is smiling and already tasting her lifeblood in his mind.

A cold grips Ioreth's heart. Colder than any Mordor night, colder than any lonely campsite, colder than she has felt since she met Lithariel.

She runs, inelegant, desperation tearing at her lungs, and dives in front of the Orc, her broken blade thrusting into black blood and gore.

Behind her Lithariel kicks an Orc so hard the sound of his ribs cracking is audible, and her sword presents the ground with another present of a severed head. Then she turns her head, a thanks dying on her lips.

Ioreth sees fear and loss on Lithariel's face, and can't quite figure out why. But the cold in her heart is deeper now, more painful, more physical.

She looks down, nearly laughs at the sight of the crudely formed steel sticking out of her chest. It hurts now, a pain that rattles inside her very bones.

 _sorry_ she tries to say, but the metal is sticking through one of her lungs, and she feels like she is drowning.

It's been a long time since she's died like this, but the cold is familiar, cruelly comforting, and she follows it, abandons her breath.

* * *

She wakes on one of the towers of light, breath rushing back into her lungs. Her body is whole, but her mind feels ready to collapse, ready to rend itself asunder in frustration.

It's her fault. She left herself open to pain, let herself get used to a friendship with someone she could lose. She should have known better, have learnt something useful from the months of isolation, but instead she got attached, forgot how gruesomely everyone she cared about on the wall died. Forget how she is little more than a dead woman walking, a creature suited to dealing out death and misfortune, and nothing good.

She doesn't even know for sure if Lithariel is alive or dead right now. She left her alone to face the horde alone, and for all her skill, Lithariel is still just a human.

Part of her doesn't want to know. Doesn't want to have to see Lithariel dead, dead like her Rangers, her son. She doesn't want to have to burn the body of another person she loves.

But she has to know. She doesn't want to live with the feeling of Lithariel's blood on her hands, but she cannot live with the uncertainty.

There's no one at the battle site when she arrives. The ground is still, and the bodies are cold. Every face is inhuman, and the only red she can see is that smeared on a long sword that her chest knows far too intimately.

So, she let's herself hope. She let's the emotion grow, unsteady and uncertain, in her lungs.

There are tracks left in the dust, of boots that she cannot immediately recognise as human or Orc, and she follows them, chases their imprint through grass and crumbling stone. It gives her time. Time to slow her thoughts, dissect her situation. It's only now that she realises the danger in Lithariel surviving.

She hates the part of herself that fears the inevitable hate in Lithariel. She doesn't like how she can't even manage to decide which option she fears most.

The tracks lead to an empty castle, left crumbling by time and a lack of care on the Orcs' behalf. Ioreth crouches, moves through the long grass like a predator, waiting to see whose tracks she was follows. She sticks to the shadows, listens carefully, almost irritated by the lack of noise.

Then she hears the faintest of noises from behind one of the towers, and she rests one hand on her sword as she approaches it, not daring to hope.

She turns the corner and sees Lithariel, dagger in hand, the fearsome look she had worn dropping into one of shock, eyes swimming with confusion.

"I'm sorry." Ioreth whispers, breaking the cold silence. "I should have told you."

"I saw you die." Lithariel says simply, dagger still gripped tight. "I know what I saw. If this is some cruel trick..."

"I did die." Ioreth admits, the truth weighing heavily on her heart, but she pushes it through regardless. "On the wall. The Uruks killed me alongside my men and my son, in some arcane ritual I don't understand. They summoned the spirit of a long dead elf, but he defied them and bonded with me instead."

It's not a good explanation. It's not one Ioreth would believe, had she not lived it. She's just waiting for the inevitable disgust to fill Lithariel, and she flinches as Lithariel reaches out to her, expecting wired fingers around her throat, or a punch to mottle her face. She's not expecting gentle fingers to brush her jaw, and she finds Lithariel looking at her with a mix of emotions she cannot place.

And then there are strong arms wrapped around her, and she is left motionless, shocked.

"I thought you were dead." Lithariel murmurs into her shoulder. "I thought I'd lost you."

Ioreth moves her arms finally, wraps them around Lithariel's waist. "I thought you'd hate me." She admits, her voice shaky.

"I'm just glad you're alive."

Ioreth let's herself melt in the face of the warmth and security that surrounds her

* * *

Ioreth has never been a woman for magic. It's funny thinking that, given what she is now, but that fact still rings true, even now. Magic bends understanding, hides as a thing unseen, powerful yet intangible.

That same kind of power is woven into the air tonight. Ioreth can feel it's pull, settling leaden in her gut. It swirls emotions unnamed to hover in her throat, a feeling that swells when she so much as glances at Lithariel.

Lithariel doesn't seem to notice. She's busy unpacking their sleeping rolls, the slight smile on her face turned sharp by the firelight.

"I think we should travel south for a while." Lithariel says, approaching her. "I'm nearly certain that's where the next warlord is hiding."

"Sounds good." Ioreth replies, voice a little hollow.

Lithariel notices immediately, settling herself down close to Ioreth, hand on her knee, her presence almost too warm for comfort, making Ioreth feel just so slightly like she is being set alight.

"Ioreth?" She says, soft. Gentle, cautious, like Ioreth is a frightened creature, seconds away from spooking.

"Is there a reason you haven't asked?" Ioreth manages. The question itself doesn't need to be stated, it lingers in the air, stains Ioreth's skin, free from the memory of an injury that still flashes through her mind.

"I-" Lithariel's voice falters, and even the thought of it is shocking to Ioreth, that Lithariel, who carries herself with such vigour and self-assurance, could be so hesitant.

"I assumed you would tell me the rest later." Lithariel says, and the explanation doesn't entirely ring true, but Ioreth doesn't feel quite feel like dragging the complete truth out of her.

The firelight flickers, and Ioreth realises that Lithariel's hand hasn't moved, and guilt blossoms in her heart. She's a liar. Lying by omission, yet still, Ioreth has been more than content to take Lithariel's company and utilise her skills, and refused to share her true nature.

"It's a long story," she starts, "and not all of it makes sense, even to me."

* * *

There's something interesting about stories shared late at night. Honesty is easier, somehow, so Ioreth talks about her families, about how she was refused by her first, torn from her second. She talks about the Rangers, about feeling like she belonged, about her son, who she still believes could have done so much to change the world for the better.

And she talks about dying. About Celebrimbor, the elf who defies death's grasp just as much as she. Talks about how it never seems to get easier, to die and un-die, over and over, again and again until some unseen quota is satisfied, until she can finally end what ties her to a world that has so often tried to remove her from its surface.

And, contrary to every knife sharp fear that sinks its fangs inside her mind, Lithariel doesn't run in horror or fear. She moves closer in fact, puts her arm around Ioreth's waist instead, and it's giving Ioreth's mind whiplash to have someone treat her like her life story is worthy of sympathy rather than revulsion.

And Lithariel talks too. About the things that happened while she was still an infant, how she wasn't just rescued by the Tribesmen but adopted by their Queen, how she has always fought to prove herself worthy, how she is in Mordor right now because this isn't a place she could bring an army and hope they'd all survive.

The fire burns down into embers, their conversation has dwindled, and Ioreth is dreading the inevitable moment that Lithariel will move away, take back that which Ioreth has greedily become far too used to.

But for now, it's enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not relevant but before the storm still has me crying about Rachel ;-;


	6. Chapter 6

Something in Mordor shifts, almost overnight. The wind changes direction, blows a new course, leaves Ioreth to wonder at the cause. It’s not anything concrete, nothing she could label or analyse, just a sense, a prediction, that a change has swept in while her back was turned, flipped the world’s axis without her recognising it. It’s just a feeling, but, well. Ioreth has ignored feelings like this before, and been sentenced to watch her world crumble.

Lithariel pushes for them to investigate more, to interrogate more orcs, steal more documents, any action that could help them pinpoint the source. All they find is needlessly vague, referencing previous orders that have since been destroyed, to conversations had in the dark, to troop movements but no mention of their intent, their destination. Just mystery and mystery and mystery. But they can see it. Orcs are moving out of Mordor. There are less in each camp they enter, until its beyond worrying, until its beyond concerning.

They’re tracking down an Orc messenger, hoping he might hold the answers, or at least more than his brethren have, when they stumble across a small group of soldiers, surrounded by waves of furious Orcs. Ioreth hesitates slightly, glances at the tracks they’ve followed so diligently, but Lithariel grabs her hand, drags her forward, a glint of recognition in her eyes.

“We have to help them.” She states, and Ioreth nods in agreement. And she’s right. There are other messengers, other chances at knowledge, and only so few humans remaining in Mordor.

They sweep in, surprise the Orcs enough to disrupt their ranks, give the soldiers the opportunity to press back. It doesn’t take long after that for the more cowardly Orcs to break rank and flee, an action which the rest quickly follow.

Ioreth sheaths her sword, and turns to find Lithariel engrossed in familiar conversation with the soldiers, clapping their leader on the shoulder like a brother. Lithariel catches Ioreth looking, waves her over, relief splashed over her face.

“Ioreth you’ll never believe- These soldiers, they are all Tribesmen of Nurn- my people- and this is my close friend Alyssi, one of our best Captains.”

Ioreth grabs the man’s hand to shake, “I didn’t think your people entered Mordor very often.”

“We don’t.” he replied. “In fact, we only entered to find you, Commander.”

“Has something happened?”

Something dark flashes across his face, and he nods sharply. “Yes. Orcs have flooded in by the hundreds, taking over the old forts. Your mother has grown ill in your absence, and now she can barely stand. She sent us here to ask you to return, to help us.” He glances at Ioreth, curiousity scrawled plain across his face. “In fact, she insisted that your friend join us too. I did not even know who she meant, until just now.”

Lithariel frowns slightly, but worry eats her up, controls her decision. “I must go.” She says, and touches Ioreth’s arm. “Will you come with us?”

Nurnen. The place the Orcs have been travelling to. The place where Lithariel’s heart truly lies. It holds too much, both for her quest, and for her companion, for Ioreth to refuse.

“I will."

* * *

It almost hurts how green it is. After what feels like years of living in Mordor, Ioreth has grown used to ceaseless browns and blacks, only broken up by the occasional splash of red but here, here she remembers a world beyond Mordor. It seems crazy, really, that a few trees, and a couple of patches of grass, could affect her so, but here she is, on the border to a land that, a first glance, seems the exact opposite to the world she has known for so long.

That is, until she spies the now familiar crumbling ruins, hears the faint growl of Orcs carried on the wind. This land, as green as it may be, is no less untouched by Sauron as Mordor is.

There's a faint smear of weeks old blood on one of the ruin's walls, too faded for them to tell whether it is Orc or Human, and Ioreth watches as Lithariel presses her palm to the mark, clenches her jaw. Above all, above the greenery, the ruins, the Orcs, this land is Lithariel's home. It hits Ioreth suddenly how much it must hurt for her to return to it like this, to have held the belief that her home, her people, were safe, only to find out that they had been attacked and hunted without her there to protect them.

Captain Alyssi puts his hand on Lithariel's shoulder in sympathy, but only for a second, only long enough to give the slightest bit of comfort before he starts walking again.

"I fear we have little time, Commander." He says. "Your mother is ill, and everyday we lose land and good soldiers to the Orcs."

"They won't gain any more." Lithariel says, strength ripping through her voice. "Not one more fort, not one more life. I won't let them take anything more from us."

She's tense, angry, and from the way one of her hands hovers over her sword hilt, Ioreth knows she's tempted to run off now, to try and drive every single Orc from her homeland with nothing more than her own blade. Ioreth steps in to Lithariel, rests her hand on the small of her back, leans in so that not even Alysi can hear her words.

"I know you know this, but you are not alone Lithariel. We will stop the Orcs, we will save your people, but we need time, we need a plan. We need each other." She pauses, let's herself breathe a little before she continues. "And you were there for me, in all those weeks we were in Mordor. Let me be there for you now."

Lithariel relaxes. Not a lot, but enough. Enough to say she is listening, enough to say that her words matter. But the thing is, there's only so much Ioreth can do. Words have power, sure, but Ioreth doesn't know any that can wipe fury and pain from a heart, can ease a someone's mind when the things they care for most are in mortal peril.

* * *

The Tribesmen camp is larger than Ioreth expected. Ioreth had been expecting something small, but no, their camp is large enough that Ioreth is impressed they have managed to keep it safe from Orc detection for so long.

There's a small smile playing at the edges of Lithariel's mouth that not even her bitter mood can suppress. Alyssi catches the expression too, mouthes 'welcome home', a smile breaking onto his face as well when Lithariel's expression lightens once more.

And Ioreth gets it. She really does. This is Lithariel's home, her family, and no matter the circumstances, she has still returned to where she belongs.

And, maybe, maybe Ioreth is a little jealous. A little bitter that Lithariel has a home that she can return to, a family that, even if they are in danger, are still alive, still possess a hope for surviving.

But then she looks at Lithariel. And she finds a balance in her hesitant smile. Ioreth still remembers, too vividly to be comfortable, the shock and devastation that had captured Lithariel's emotions just earlier that day, pain that she had so desperately wished Lithariel didn't have to feel.

And really, how can she be anything but glad that something still remains in the world that can give her comfort.

Lithariel interrupts her thoughts, leaning in and pointing at a small baker's cart. "You really must try one of Mrs Salyn's pastries while you're here. I promise they're worth it."

Alyssi punches Lithariel's arm lightly, looking mildly offended. "Is that really the thing you missed most while you were gone?"

Lithariel laughs. It's short, and weak, but it's still something. It makes Alyssi smile, puts Ioreth's heart at ease. It's not the laughter itself that relaxes them, but the promise behind it, that Lithariel won't go mad with anger and grief, won't run out on a solo crusade for vengeance while they're not looking.

"Don't worry," Ioreth starts, patting Lithariel's arm, "I'll try your pastries."

Lithariel glances at her, quietly pleased, and Ioreth let's herself smile, let's herself feel light in what moments she can, even if she's ever conscious that such moments cannot last indefinitely.

She catches Alyssi looking at her, smirking, some unspoken knowledge glimmering in his eyes. He winks at her silently, and turns away, his wide smile still clear on his face.

"We've almost reached the Queen, Lithariel. I hope you're ready."

Lithariel hesitates slightly, long enough to catch Alyssi's notice, make him frown slightly at her in askance.

"How is she?" She asks quietly. "She was not well when I left, and I fear..."

He grimaces, and the expression is enough to inspire worry. "She has not gotten better. The healers don't know what to do, and she has largely been unable to utilise any form of magic. We've been doing the best we can to keep her condition quiet, as the last thing we want is for the Orcs to know that Queen Marwen, the Lady of the Shore, is bedridden and weak. But I... I have fears."

"I see." Lithariel says quietly. She shakes her head briefly, wipes the negative emotions off her face, and walks through the cloth entrance, holding it open for Ioreth to follow.

The space is dim and cluttered beyond belief. The objects that fill it shine, and despite the seemingly chaotic spread of objects, Ioreth can still sense some form of rhythm flowing through the madness.

What she can't tell, however, is whether they are meant for experimentation or some form of magic. Despite all that's happened, despite the spirit bound to her blood, magic has always been beyond the reach of her understanding. Give her tracks, Orcs or raiders, and she can dissect them with her eyes to understand. Magic, not so much. Unpredictable to the extreme.

Still, she tries not to gawk at the sight of it all, gives herself room for one glance around the room and then no more, forcing her eyes to settle on the crumpled form of an old woman. Part of her analyses fast, picks apart her solitary presence in the room, the crown wearing down her head, the familiar way Lithariel approaches her, a broad smile broadening her face. That part of her knows who she is near immediately. The rest of her doesn't quite want to believe. There's too much dissonance between the woman Lithariel had described with such flowing words, with such pride. The woman in Lithariel's words was a Queen, with a will strong enough to transform a band of tribes into a nation, a mind strong enough to sense the trouble brewing beyond the horizon before the first sword was drawn.

She wasn't a crumpled figure hiding from the sun in a pile of rags.

"Mother," Lithariel begins, shattering Ioreth's remaining doubts, "I've returned. And there's someone I want you to meet."

The old woman raises her head slowly, painfully, and Ioreth wonders briefly if she can see them at all through her cloudy eyes. But there's some quality to her face, some angle to her body that betrays a keen intelligence.

Lithariel returns to Ioreth's side, pulls her closer to her with an arm around Ioreth's shoulders. Even through the layers of their armour Ioreth can feel the heat of her, and she leans in slightly, suddenly greedy for it.

"This is Ioreth," Lithariel announces, her voice ringing clear, "she is a great warrior, and a greater friend." Her voice is coloured warm with pride, and the arm encircling Ioreth is almost possessive. But in a good way. A way that speaks without words. It kicks up emotions that had lain dormant in Ioreth's gut, twists them around into something she cannot quite name.

Emotions that are corrupted by the old woman's gaze, by eyes that are keener than she would like to believe, staring beyond appearances, diving into Ioreth's heart, and her chest aches as if the Queen has driven a knife into her chest, ripped her heart out for the world to wonder at.

She lays her instincts aside, for the moment. For Lithariel's sake. "It's a pleasure to meet you finally," she says instead. "Your daughter has told me much about you and your people."

Marwen opens her mouth, about to reply, but instead her eyes blow wide, and she curls over into deep raking coughs. Ioreth feels the threads of guilt sweep over her heart, for at the heart of it Marwen isn't a Queen, isn't a mysterious figure, she's a sick old woman.

She glances at Lithariel, fast enough to catch the expression on her face cracking, joy crumbling into the deep seated fear that had been hiding beneath, and Lithariel rushes to her mother's side, presses a hand against her back. Marwen waves her gentle concern away, manages to pull herself upright enough to look Ioreth in the eyes.

"The intel you need, grave walker, is by the mountain camp in the east." Something cold plunges it's way into Ioreth's heart, a grave chilled ice that makes the hairs on her arms stand up. Marwen's cloudy blind eyes pierce through her. "And there isn't much time left."

And the thing is, above all else, this is all Ioreth has: empty suspicions. Her gut is ill at ease with.... Something, but she has no evidence, not even a concrete sense of what it is that has her on guard. So. She'll go, she'll find whatever it is that Marwen thinks the "grave walker" should know, and should it be a trap, her paranoia will prevent her from walking in unaware.

"I'll start off now, then." Ioreth starts, breaking off the stare with Marwen, looking to Lithariel instead. "Make some headway while there's still light."

There's a faint sadness in Lithariel's eyes, but she nods, clenches a fist above her heart. "I should stay with my mother. I wish you luck." She smiles, but it's hollow, fake.

"No!" Marwen snaps, almost panicked. "You should go with the grave walker."

"But mother, you're ill-"

Marwen shoos Lithariel again, as angrily as she can manage. "I will survive. Your... Friend needs your guidance." There's a subtle tilt in her words, a smirk portrayed more in her voice than on her face.

Lithariel backs away slowly, reluctantly, but Marwen doesn't break her resolve, won't change her mind, and finally Lithariel is by her side again, and she sighs, touches Ioreth's arm, and gestures to the entrance.

They don't linger long in the camp, just long enough for Lithariel to pull Alyssi aside, beg him to watch over her mother, which he pledges to with sincerity.

* * *

There’s a weighted feel to the air when they return to Morwen, something hidden, unspoken, but heavy nonetheless, put Ioreth’s hair on end. Like a storm is brewing within these canvas walls, a crackle that promises future lightning. Lithariel rushes to her mother’s side, but Marwen brushes off her concerns, refuses to reply to any of her inquiries. Just stares at Ioreth, eyes boring under her skin, sharp enough to draw blood.

The Queen’s condition has deteriorated rapidly. Ioreth only knows the woman is still alive by the small movements of her eyes as they follow Ioreth around the room. The colour of her skin, the loose way she holds her head, the smell alone, point otherwise. Ioreth isn’t a healer; the extent of her knowledge in that area is keeping soldiers alive long enough to reach an actual healer. Gaping sword wounds, arrows buried into flesh, she could help with. Whatever this sickness is, Ioreth is out of her depth.

Something shifts in Marwen’s eyes, something hungry. There's a gleam in them, a keen intelligence hiding behind all the trapestries of illness. It reminds Ioreth of the ocean at night, deep and endless, but accompanied by the inescapable sensation that something ancient hides beneath the waters, watching.

“Is your friend with you, gravewalker?” Marwen asks, voice rasping, rusty with dry disuse. “I’d like to meet him, you know. He’s what’s really special about you.”

“Mother, what?” Lithariel asks, hand reaching out to grasp Marwen’s shoulder, but her touch seems to throw a lever in Marwen, who lashes out with an arm, sends lithariel flying, her body crashing into a bookcase several metres away. Ioreth has barely taken a step towards her before Marwen turns to face her, points her staff at her, and her control is gone. The gem on top glows, and she is stuck, a stone statue.

Marwen speaks a word Ioreth cannot comprehend, and the gem glows brighter, and Ioreth screams as she feels something rip inside her, can do nothing but watch as Celebrimbor slips into sight. He struggles as his spirit is dragged closer to Marwen, each millimetre of distance sending another lance of pain through Ioreth’s heart.

Ioreth hasn’t properly felt fear for a long time. Not since that last night on the wall, the last time she’d properly been human, not when it was too easy to trust in her inability to die, in the powers Celebrimbor granted her, and her own skills. But she feels it now, stronger than ever, the threat that she might not survive to the end after all, that after all she’d done in the name of revenge, the one thing keeping her breathing would be ripped out of her chest, and she will be nothing.

But there’s movement to the side, away from Marwen’s sight, easy for Marwen to miss while she watches Celebrimbor’s desperate attempts to escape, easy while her victory seems so near. Lithariel stands, unsteady on her feet. She locks eyes with Ioreth, and Ioreth can see the horror filling her eyes at the situation in front of her.

“You’ll be with Sauron soon.” Marwen says, another voice bleeding into her own, one deeper, darker. The sound is enough to spur Lithariel into action, and she runs the short distance between them, a little unsteady after her fall, but desperate enough to be fast. Marwen looks over at Lithariel too late, too slow, too busy controlling Ioreth and Celebrimbor to stop Lithariel snatching the staff out of her hands, throwing it to the ground, shattering the gem with a stomp.

Celebrimbor snaps back into Ioreth, and she collapses to the ground, drawing grateful breaths into her hollow lungs. She looks up as a gentle hand presses against her back, sees Lithariel hovering above her, concern filling her face. She murmurs a thanks to her, accepts a hand helping her to her feet.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Ioreth admits quietly, lets a smile flicker onto her face.

Lithariel rests her hands on Ioreth’s shoulders, squeezes her slightly. “I’m sure you’ll repay the favour soon enough.”

They’re interrupted by a series of coughs from Marwen. Ioreth’s hand touches the hilt of her sword, but makes the decision to move it away soon after. The staff has only been broken for a handful of minutes, but already life is flowing back into Marwen’s bones, giving her back several years. Marwen stands slowly, but with a glance upwards, towards Lithariel, she shifts speeds, rushes stiffly to Lithariel’s side.

“Lithariel?” She asks through a dry throat. Her voice may be rough like before, and yet she sounds different. Gentler, filled with genuine emotion. “What happened to you?”

“You were under a curse, mother, attacked us. But I broke the object causing it. You should be free now.”

Grief floods Marwen’s face. “I owe you a great deal then, my daughter.” She shifts, looks at Ioreth instead. “And you too, stranger.”

Lithariel brightens slightly, presents Ioreth with a hand on one shoulder, smiling with a quiet pride.

“Mother, this is Ioreth.”


	7. Chapter 7

The end is coming. Ioreth can taste the tension stretching the air, feel it crackle over her skin. With every day Orc attacks increase, the territory still controlled by the Tribesmen rapidly diminishing in size. Most days Ioreth spends hunting down and branding Orcs, slowly inching herself closer to controlling their leaders, closer to controlling an army. But its not enough. No matter how many she brands, no matter how many others the Tribesmen kill, more rise to swell their ranks. The few days she spends within the Tribesmen’s outposts she spends training soldiers, reconstructing defences, aiding with strategies. And it’s still not enough to make any real difference.

Celebrimbor becomes increasingly agitated, pacing back and forth in the scant few quiet moments they have, creating plans, deconstructing strategies into the deep hours of the night, not noticing when Ioreth slips into sleep. His stress is contagious, and she finds herself waking up hours before dawn, mind swirling, Celebrimbor appearing within seconds to drag her into yet another discussion, and soon she finds herself in the habitat of breaking camp while the sky is still dark, impatient to complete her goals.

The sun is slipping away as she hikes back towards the main Tribesmen camp. Her hand shakes with excess energy, a reminder of how many ghostly handprints she created, how many minds she stole. Celebrimbor walks beside her, quiet for once, his hand cupping his chin as he thinks silently. Ioreth ignores him for now, content to let him dwell within his own thoughts without invading hers too.

“We may have enough.” He says suddenly, cracking the silence. “There are still many Uruks here that have escaped our control, but we have found no evidence of any other leaders.”

She doesn’t reply immediately, and he stops walking, forces her to pause too and face him. “Ioreth.” He starts, weighing his words carefully. “The time to attack has come. We need to act while we have this opportunity.”

“Are you sure?” She asks. “We only have one chance to do this, Celebrimbor.”

“I’m sure.” He says, “We need-“

They’re interrupted by Alyssi, running out from the gates to meet them, dressed in full armour, followed soon after by a small troop of Tribesmen.

“Ioreth!” Alyssi shouts, relief bleeding throughout his voice. “We need you. There’s-“

“Alyssi, I’m sorry but I don’t think I can help you right now.”

Alyssi’s face twists painfully, fear flashing through his eyes. The show of emotion is so far removed from his normal demeanor that it makes her pause, strikes a bolt of worry through her heart.

Celebrimbor is silent, but a glance at him shows a frown on his face, eyes calculating as he considers the soldiers before them.

“I wouldn’t insist if it wasn’t urgent but.” He takes a breath, steadies himself. “Lithariel is missing.”

“What?”

“She was out on patrol with a few of her soldiers. They were due back hours ago, but theres been no word from any of them. I sent a tracker out to check their route but she failed to find them, only found a set of Uruk tracks headed towards a stronghold. Ioreth, we think she’s been captured.”

“I’m coming with you then.” Ioreth replies, and Alyssi nods. They set off immediately, the troop of Tribesmen unnaturally silent throughout the journey. Celebrimbor stays present, and she shoots a glance at him, waiting for him to rebuke her decision, dismiss it as a waste of the time they do not possess.

“We do not have much time.” He states, predictably.

“I’m aware.”

He pauses, transparent eyes locking with hers, his expression unreadable. Finally, he relents and shakes his head lightly. “Hurry then.” He concedes.

* * *

Something within her chest begins to rot. And yes, rotten is the word for it, it twists and burns slowly, and she can just about smell the corruption as it consumes her alive. It consumes not only her body's peace but her mind, worry shooting thought after untraceable thought, at a speed she cannot even begin to follow.

Worst of all, she is not alone. She can just about sense the same poisonous emotions that corrupt her in the Tribesmen around her. Captain Alyssi shows it the clearest, not even bothering to hide the fear possessing him. Lithariel had been cheerful, proud even, as she called him her brother, but all that happiness has rotten away into a fragile fear that threatens to break the man in front of her.

It breaks what little of her heart is still whole. It sends splinters into her soul, because this isn't an army missing their commander, a people missing their princess, but a family missing their sister.

And she understands. Dear God, she understands. Because it's the same poison filling her veins as the day her son died. The same fear, that someone she loves may have been ripped from her grasp because she wasn't strong enough to protect them.

The first time, she was just a woman. A Ranger, sure. One might even go so far as to say she was a formidable warrior, but she was still human. Against the full powers of Mordor, she proved to be nothing more than the slightest breath of wind in the face of a hurricane.

Now though? Now not even death could stop her. She had amassed power after power until she could threaten Sauron himself, and yet she couldn't stop a woman she cared so much for from being taken.

What's the point after all, of cheating death, if the only person she can save is herself?

Alyssi taps her arm, and she finds the entire troop looking at her, waiting.

"When do we attack?" The captain asks. Any other question lies silent, assumed. They're coming, he says silently. We're fighting. You may join us, but you cannot stop us.

"Now." She says. "We attack now."

* * *

It's almost shocking that they accept her plan. It's not a glorious one, not by a long shot, and it certainly doesn't put them in the spotlight. But it's as practical for the situation as Ioreth can manage, given the time she has. And the fact that she is the only one here whose death she does not fear.

The emotion from before, the slow warm rot, has cooled into ice. Sharp, it sinks its fangs into her lungs, her throat, makes her every breath bitter.

So. So. She sneaks through their camp, and she brands every Orc she so much as catches a glimpse of. Celebrimbor revels in it, she knows. He may hate that she is here, risking precious time for a single mortal woman, but with every soul he takes control of, the more his silent judgements lessen, until he is all but encouraging her, pushing her onwards.

If she had more time here, she could really take control. She could track down and possess every last Orc within the base, negate completely the chance of anything going wrong. But when she finally sees Lithariel, she is being dragged, bloodied, towards an Orc whose sword size is matched only by his grin.

Time has never been a lover of hers.

Ioreth swings down, and makes her way as fast as she can whilst attracting as little attention as she can manage. The smell of iron mixes with the stench of Orc, and Ioreth traces it quickly to 5 bodies that lie scattered. She would have assumed them Orc, from what little remains intact from their faces, but she recognises their armour. Tribesmen. Likely the rest of the patrol Lithariel had accompanied.

The head Orc is taunting Lithariel, and so Ioreth judges it safe to brand as many of the surrounding crowd as she can, one, two, three, bending under her control.

She judged wrong.

Lithariel is proud at the best of times, the type who'd spit at Sauron, given the chance. And when they were dancing with death in mordor, Ioreth admired that, admired how she knew a single mistake could steal her life away, and yet she still stood against the impossible, day after day.

She doesn't quite feel the same, not now, not when Lithariel takes the first opportunity she is granted to kick out at the lead Orc, her boot connecting with a crack that makes her wince. The lead Orc doesn't hesitate to retaliate, and brings the blunt side of his sword down on Lithariel's arm, and she screams loud enough that he must have broken the bone.

Ioreth draws a throwing knife from her belt and throws it, the blade thudding into the lead Orcs eye socket up to it's hilt, and he gasps and collapses.

The two holding Lithariel shove her to the ground, and draw their own crude weapons, likely confident that with the help of the surrounding crowd and the rest of the garrison, not even the grave walker could emerge victorious, not alone.

But really, it is the Orcs who are alone, this time. Celebrimbor shouts out an order to his possessed troops, and they lumber into action. The two remaining Orcs barely have space to register the betrayal before their brothers have sunk rough blades into their stomachs, left them coughing in the mud, begging for a death swifter than that they were granted.

Ioreth ignores their moans of pain, and runs instead to Lithariel's side, who is leaning heavily on the side of a building Ioreth doesn't trust to hold her weight. She offers her arm instead, silently thankful when Lithariel doesn't refuse the help.

There's so much she could say. So much she probably should say, but it all dies on her tongue when Lithariel hisses in pain. There's something buried underneath, something deeper than the physical. It's no physical pain that tears Lithariel apart. No woman could face everything that she has and be consumed by such a furious pain from a broken arm.

"They killed my men." Lithariel mutters. "One by one, in front of me. Slow. They wanted it to hurt, they wanted it to destroy me, so I'd tell them what they wanted to know."

"What did they want?" Ioreth asks, soft, already afraid of the answer.

"You." Lithariel says, the word dropping like thunder. "They wanted you."

* * *

There's more Orcs. An endless stream, such that she fear it will never end, that they will spend the rest of their lives waging war for the right to move another step. Ioreth cannot support Lithariel and fight, so she leaves her leaning against walls and buildings.

Lithariel is exhausted. She is bloodied and bruised, and she only remains in control of a single arm, but every Orc that steps too close to her tastes her blade, her fury making her strikes sharper. Soon she is covered in black as well as red, and the Orcs begin to flee from her reach.

Near the gate the Tribesmen charge, and in the face of them and their possessed comrades, the remaining Orcs flee, and Ioreth begins to feel as though she can breathe again.

Captain Alyssi breaks ranks as soon as he can, rushes to Lithariel's side, his fingers gently brushing over her arm, and he shakes his head at the grimace Lithariel pulls.

"My lady, I-"

"Alyssi." Lithariel interrupts. "I need you to ride back to camp. Tell my mother that we need to make war plans immediately."

"But surely your wounds are more urgent."

"I will survive them. But our people might not, if we are unprepared. Go. Please."

He nods, finally, still unwilling.

"He's not entirely wrong." Ioreth whispers to her. "You need to get to a healer, a proper one."

Lithariel opens her mouth to argue, but it becomes clear even to her that she is only still standing out of sheer stubbornness.

"Fine." She says. "Fine. Let us leave now, then."

* * *

Lithariel insists on attending the war meeting while receiving treatment, the healer doing her best to remain unobtrusive as she sets Lithariel’s arm, Lithariel in turn doing her best to ignore the pain.

There's too much to plan, too many small details they don't possess the time to account for. Instead they construct a vague broad sweep of a plan, for the Tribesmen to do what they can to protect their people as they construct a distraction, give Ioreth the opportunity to strike at the heart of Mordor.

* * *

The air is heavy with mist on the morning she leaves. It drags the sky down, the weight of it settling white over Ioreth's shoulders. She can see shapes in the mist, forgotten castles and crumbling walls, but apart from ruins they are alone as they march towards the docks.

There's a weight in her chest, dragging her heart towards her stomach, and time does nothing to cure it, rather, every step accelerates its fall. There's a weight in her heart, a weight in the air, and Ioreth finds herself struggling not to feel like she is being pressed into the ground.

The thing is, it's too late for choices. Too late for second thoughts, for regrets to become actions. Ioreth has played her hand, pushed her pieces, and now all that is left is for her to follow those pieces into war. She's made her army, made her threats, challenged the one who stole her heart from within her chest, sliced it apart like he sliced her son.

And, well. Ioreth committed to these plans long ago. What's left of her soul was sold over to revenge since she first awoke in this twilight life. Sauron and his minions murdered her soul, eviscerated her sense of peace, and maybe, maybe, it was Celebrimbor's fault for her remaining in this world, but it was Mordor that corrupted her, Mordor that turned her from woman to monster.

It was Mordor that made her more familiar with death than any human has any right to be. It burnt memory after memory of life fading from eyes, of limbs going slack as blood oozes black over her sword, of mouths gasping as their lungs betray them. But it wasn't enough, was it, for her to simply be a killer? She had to die. Over and over, she had to taste the one secret that should have been denied to living minds.

Mordor came so, so close to taking everything from her. It almost transformed her into a creature who breathed and ate only for the sake of the revenge that for so long remained on the distant horizon. And it might just have succeeded, had it not been for her.

Ioreth sneaks a glance at Lithariel walking beside her. It's strange to think how close they have grown in so short a period, that within a few scant months Lithariel could grow from a stranger to the woman who makes Ioreth feel as if her heart is not made of stone or clay, but flesh and blood, that she isn't a vengeful spirit or a blood thirsty creature but a human woman, struggling to exist like everyone else.

Lithariel's jaw is set tight, and only the slightest of grimaces is present on her face. There's pride in the tilt of her chin, the brightness in her eyes. It hurts Ioreth to see Lithariel hurt, even more to know that she was the cause. That her love for Lithariel got her captured, and that Lithariel's love for her got her tortured.

"We're nearing the docks, Ma'am." Captain Alyssi calls out, and Ioreth simply nods in response while Lithariel offers a simple thanks.

By now, not even the mist can hide the docks and the imposing ship from their view. While it had, they could at least pretend the journey would last longer, that there wasn't an end, a goodbye.

Her Orcs are already waiting, shuffling restlessly in the ship as they wait for her to join them. And really, it's only now that it hits Ioreth that this is it. That she has reached the start of her finale, that she has but a few minutes granted to her to say goodbye to a people, and a woman, who have changed her second life for the better.

Too many words hang unsaid in the white air. Too many muttered apologies, too many tears, too many untrue promises for Ioreth to pick from. Not when she feels the heavy gaze of the Tribesmen. The Queen stares at her with a heavy understanding that leaves little to be spoken, Alyssi with a deep seated sadness that Ioreth dares not mention.

And Lithariel's eyes are full of something that is almost fury. It softens when their gazes connect, and Ioreth knows that the anger isn't directed towards her or her choices, but rather at the world, for creating the circumstances that brought them together, only to necessitate Ioreth leaving. For making this a quest that no one capable of dying could complete, and ensuring that Lithariel is cursed to be the one left behind.

Really, in times like this, words aren't enough. Instead, Ioreth just steps in close, and embraces Lithariel one final time.

"I'm sorry." She whispers into Lithariel's ear. "I'm so sorry."

Lithariel just pulls her in tighter, doesn't acknowledge the apology.

"When you come back." Lithariel starts.

"Lithariel, I-"

"WHEN you come back." She repeats, stronger this time. "We will be waiting for you. All of us. And maybe you lost your brothers and your son on that wall, but you will always have us. Have me. So please Ioreth, for me, promise me you will return to us."

"I will." She pledges, her voice cracking. She can't say anything more, not while Lithariel's arms are warm around her, not while Lithariel's people watch, armoured gloves clenched above armoured hearts.

Lithariel squeezes her one last time, and let's her arms drop from around her, pushing Ioreth towards the ship.

"Go." She commands. "Go now. And don't you dare break your promise."

And she does. She boards a ship filled with the possessed, and sets off to a land where only the doomed walk.

* * *

Theres waves of Orcs, followed soon by torrents of blood. It’s hard to keep track of, focus on sides when its Orc blade against Orc blade, the same growling, the same howls of pain on both sides. All she can focus on is the Orcs who come after her. After so many months in Mordor, its almost frightening how easy it is now, to duck and sidestep, dodge by a hair’s breadth before sinking sharpened steel into thick flesh, stain the ground with more and more blackened blood. She’s had practice, more than what is needed to fight with ease so this, this is almost a game. If a game could be played within that crunch of bone, the thud of severed limbs, and not drive someone mad.

It’s almost too much, the roaring, the smell, the blood covering every part of her, snaking its way through her armour to her skin, sticky and still warm. And it strikes her as funny, that now, now that she has sacrificed everything she has for this, put her soul and her sanity on the line for revenge, that more than anything she just wants this over. She wants to end this, sure, but end it in a way that’ll allow her some rest. Even if that rest is in a shallow grave.

Celebrimbor takes shape, steals what colours exist from the world, and points upwards, towards a guard tower that spirals into the sky.

“Look.” He says. “What we seek is up there. The end to this all awaits.”

She nods quietly. He looks down at her, and if she didn’t know him too well, she would have sworn there was something like guilt dwelling in his ghostly eyes, lingering and twisting.

“We’d better get climbing, then.” she tells him, slotting her sword back into its sheath, craning her head upwards, allowing herself a few seconds to find the best route upwards.

“Ioreth, wait. I should-” For once there is hesitance in the ghost’s voice, a stark change from the forceful determination that has been there every other time.

“We don’t have time to wait. You said that yourself.”

“I am well aware. But I am also aware of where we are, how many disastrous ways this could end. And we have worked towards this together for so long that I feel I owe you.”

She sighs, but doesn’t complain, lets him finish.

“I’m sorry. I know how much all this loss has hurt you, carved scars into your soul, transformed you. And I understand, truly, how much it hurts to lose your family, to have them stolen away from you in tears and bloodshed. And I know how much you wanted to stay, with the Tribesmen… With Lithariel. But I promise you, that as much as I am able, I will try to get you that second chance, that second life. You have my word.”

She stares at him for a long moment, and shakes her head finally, letting go of the last few threads of bitterness she held against him.

“Thank you, Celebrimbor.”

* * *

Sauron awaits, a figure twisted out of dark metal and shadows, sharp and angled, bent into a shape unrecognisable to the living eye.

It brings her back. Back to soldier’s tales in the guards barracks she hung in as a child, hearing guard after guard claim to be a direct descendant of someone in that battle against the dark lord, that it was solely due to the actions of their ancestor that the dark lord lost that day.

Back then Sauron was nothing but a haunting shadow that only existed in the distant past. A memory preserved only in the minds of the living, incapable of influencing the physical world. No one perceived him as a real threat, as something that could return to haunt the world once more.

Theres no denying his return, not now.

She draws her sword, and circles around, slow, waiting for him to make the first move. He just stands still, unmoving, the dark empty space in his helmet where eyes should be tracking her every movement. She breathes in, about to step in and attack, when his hand shoots up, fast enough that the air ripples with movement. And theres pain, familiar pain, pain that gashes across her throat with a strength great enough to push her to her knees. She touches the wound, reminds herself of that day, an eternity ago, when her throat was cut, when she was bound to Celebrimbor.

A raise of an arm, and her immortality is stripped, stolen. After everything, she is back, her blood staining stone, death whispering in her ears. She cannot see his face, but when she glances upwards, she knows instinctively that Sauron is smiling. He walks in slowly, savouring it, and stops in front of her, helmet tilted down.

“Give in, Ranger.” she hears hissed, the sound echoing around her. “Your quest has failed. Your powers have abandoned you. Let yourself slip into oblivion.”

It'd be easy to let go. Easier to just slip away, let the winds of fate carry her away to... Whatever it is that lies beyond all this. It'd probably be happier too, to grasp with both hands a future where she has a chance to find her family again, to reunite with Dirhael, to protect him better this time.

There's blood dripping down her throat, a gash that promises nothing but death. An unfamiliar death for one such as her. It is the only injury she has ever suffered that promises finality, a proper end to all of this chaos and torment. And some dreadful part of Ioreth wants it.

But there's another part of her that burns bright, fire deep in her chest, and she remembers. She remembers with too sharp clarity every sin this creature has ever committed against the people she loved. And those she learned to love.

Ioreth can hear Celebrimbor's anguish, his fear, his despair, not at the thought of dying, but of this creature gaining his power, walking free on Middle Earth.

She remembers Lithariel standing on the docks, braver than brave as she watches Ioreth go, the first time they’ve ever truly parted since they met. Ioreth knew she wanted to follow, to help fight against the very creature that waged war against her people for so long, poisoned her mother, killed her closest friends. But she knew her people needed a leader, someone strong and brave and unrelenting, and Ioreth knew that this very quest that she follows ends only in death upon death upon death.

And who else but Ioreth, the undead dead woman, could hope to succeed.

So, she stands. Slowly, painfully, but she stands.

And Ioreth thrusts the shattered remains of her dead son's blade into the heart of the creature responsible for his death.

The spectre explodes into a burst of light, leaving the tower empty. It takes something from Ioreth as it vanishes, tugging something free from her chest, and air floods back into her lungs, and she breathes clearly for the first tie in what feels like years. The steady curse of pain from the very spot on her neck that had been slit so long ago fades suddenly. She touches it, and her fingers brush away drops of red. Theres no pain from the spot, the threat of imminent death present just moments before gone.

“Celebrimbor?” She asks. She can’t quite make herself ask the question, spell her fears. He stands where he had been minutes before, when he’d struggled against Sauron’s power, warring desperately to stop himself being absorbed, from letting his power set the creature free.

“Ioreth?” He says softly, a gentler tone than he has ever taken with her. “You’re still here.”

“Yes. What’s going on Celebrimbor? Am I…” Ioreth gestures at the blood smeared across her neck despite the absence of a wound to cause it. She doesn’t even possess the words to describe it, put the event into words.

“I… I do not know. I thought killing him would release me, let us both journey into the afterlife. And I…” He pauses, looks down at his too-pale hands. “It seems… It seems as if we have a bit more time left to wander Middle Earth, Ioreth.”

There’s a lot to consider. Too much, enough that she sets it all aside, lets herself just stand, tilts her head back into the sky, lets herself just exist for now. The air stinks of rot and blood, and she can hear confused shouting from the Orcs fighting below, and yet its only now that she feels free. She spent so long focused on revenge, on letting anger and loss corrupt her, believing that the best ending she could hope for ultimately necessitated her death. Now, now she’s forced to make life about more than stalking and killing.

In the end, the decision is easy to make.

“I have to get back to Lithariel.” She says, already turning towards the edge of the tower, not bothering to ask Celebrimbor’s opinion.

She gets it anyway, hearing from behind a quiet laugh and an “I’m not surprised.”

Ioreth shakes her head, and jumps off the tower.

* * *

After everything that's happened, after long days and longer nights in a country that's very stones desired her end, after finding a people to care for only to sell her hope for being with them for revenge, after staring down the chance to finally die only to survive once more, after every single event that presses down heavy on her heart, Ioreth finds herself lost.

She's here now, staring down blank canvas, and she knows what she should do. Ioreth swore she'd return, promised the woman who had more than earnt her heart that she would survive, that she'd make it back to her. And yes, she had thought it a lie at the time. Yes, she believed with her whole soul that she would die in that corrupted land, die like any other human would.

But a promise is a promise, and surely Lithariel deserves to see her friend return to her, to not lose another to war.

But part of her just wants to run. Run away, like she's done with every other thing in her life. She could return to Mordor, a lost soul amongst the dust, fight the dark lord from inside his own lands. 

That's the thing. Commitment is almost a more frightening thought than death, in the end. The Tribesmen, and especially Lithariel, represent everything Ioreth has wanted for so long. A place to belong. A purpose. People to love. And that shouldn't be so frightening. That shouldn't make Ioreth hesitate for moment after endless moment, fingers hovering just away from the flaps to Lithariel's tent.

But it still does. It makes her fingers twitch, her mind run. Because maybe, maybe, the Tribesmen are what Ioreth was looking for when she was a child and desperately wanted to be a guard like her father. Maybe they're who she was looking for when she joined the Rangers.

But Ioreth isn't the same person as the girl challenging skilled swordsman to duels to try and prove to a distant father that she had what it took. Nor, really, is she the same person that skulked in the shadows alone in Mordor, staining herself in Orc blood by day to forget the memories of her murdered son.

Ioreth was a lost girl who let loss corrupt her into a creature obsessed with revenge. But Lithariel saw past the bloody hands and far fetched plans, refused to see Ioreth as anything other than human, whose gentle hands and unwavering trust convinced Ioreth that maybe she wasn't a monster, that nothing that had happened to her, nothing she had done, had stripped her of her right to be human.

Lithariel was a force of nature. Her strength of personality matched only by her strength in arms. And maybe, just maybe, there's another reason why Ioreth hesitates. A reason that strikes far closer to heart than to mind.

Ioreth may just have slipped into love. But no, slipped is hardly the right word. She knew, every step of the way, knew without thought. And still she chose to let it happen, chose to let Lithariel's easy smiles, her gentle touch, melt past every defence she'd laid around her heart. She knew, knew that Lithariel would only mean more and more, and so she let it happen, let herself hold onto something sweet and beautiful, in a world with little else.

It had been easy, really. Would've been easy just to love the idea of Lithariel, the brave princess fighting the waves of darkness that threaten her home. Somehow it was easier to fall for the woman behind the titles, who let nothing, not fear, not injury, not hopelessness, let no challenge that rose before her break her will. The woman who wore the death of every soldier that served under her like a scar, a reminder. The woman who shone like a beacon to her soldiers, but was just as human as any of them, who let her love for her mother blind her to truth.

Before, in Mordor, in the wilds, Ioreth's love was something to hold onto quietly, a comfort in cold nights, a motivation in battle. Something hopeless, impossible. Ioreth was a cursed woman, a crusader whose quest would surely end only in her own death. There was no time for a relationship then. No chances. Ioreth isn't sure of herself now, now that an opportunity lies stretched just outside her grasp, waiting for her to take that step, to roll the dice and pray to Lady Luck they'll land in her favour.

She breathes in quietly, and exhales. Stretches her fingers out again, and hesitates, again. She frowns, frustrated by her own inability to make a decision, to commit to one path. Run or stay, run or stay. It's a binary decision, and so Ioreth finds herself stranded on the narrow precipice between, waiting for the gust of wind that'll send her flying to one side or the other.

That gust arrives in the form of a hand on her shoulder, tugging slightly to get her to turn. She moves to face Alyssi, dressed in well made armour, carrying several rolled documents in his other hand, making Ioreth think he's likely on his way to meet with Lithariel, make further plans.

Ioreth tries to step back, move out of his way, but his hand doesn't move off her shoulder, doesn't grant her the ability to run.

He doesn't speak, doesn't make a sound, simply frowns down at her for a moment, before jerking his head towards the tent, a question forming wordlessly on his face.

She opens her mouth, but no words come. She tries to gesture out her anxieties, but all she can manage is a point towards the tent and is lost again, and just shrugs heavily.

Alyssi looks over her for a few moments more, then his gaze softens. He presses one of the scrolls in his hand into Ioreth's palm, whispers in a voice fainter than faint.

"You'd better give her that scout's report now. Before she starts worrying."

Ioreth opens her mouth to reply, and he shakes his head with a smile, and pushes her lightly towards the tent flap. He still stands there, waiting, but he doesn't push her further. Doesn't demand that she act. Just waits, let's her decide this all on her own.

And his wordless encouragement is enough for her to finally push open that flap, step inside.

Lithariel stands with her back to her, leaning over a large wooden table covered with a map, fingers tracing over it's surface.

There's no running now.

"I have the scout's report, Commander." Ioreth starts.

Lithariel straightens up, begins to turn around. "Thank you, I'll-" her eyes fall on Ioreth, and she draws in a sharp intake of breath, harsh enough for Ioreth to hear.

Lithariel looks more like a princess, now. Her eyes are tired, and her arm is wrapped in a sling, but there's a thin circlet on her brow, and strength in her posture that makes it unmistakable. But within seconds, Ioreth watches as the Princess-Commander of the Tribesmen melts away, and in her place there's Lithariel, relief flooding her eyes as she confirms that yes, Ioreth is still alive.

Lithariel steps forward, then hesitates, eyes narrowing. "Are you done with your quest? Or is this another goodbye?"

"I'm done." Ioreth replies simply, her voice choked a touch. "It's over. And I'm back, and I'd like to join your people, if you'd still take me."

There's no hesitation this time, as Lithariel just about runs to Ioreth, throwing her good arm around her, squeezing tighter than most could manage with both arms.

"Of course we'll take you." Lithariel murmurs into her ear. "You're brave, intelligent, and compassionate. The kind of warrior any of us would be more than proud to align ourselves with."

"You flatter me too much, Lithariel."

Lithariel laughs suddenly, and leans away slightly, enough to cup her chin, look into her eyes.

"I am not exaggerating Ioreth, you are an incredible woman, and one I'm privileged to have been able to fight beside for so long. You really shouldn't discount yourself."

"All right, all right. I'll accept your gratuitous praise. Even if I don't quite believe it."

Lithariel laughs again, and she's already so close, and still she leans in closer still, warm breath ghosting over Ioreth's skin. "Why am I not surprised that you don't." She murmurs quietly.

And her hand is on Ioreth's hip now, a warmth that makes Ioreth shiver inadvertently. She's not sure what Lithariel is doing, not until she meets Lithariel's eyes, sees desire swallowing up every other emotion, and she shivers again.

Still, Lithariel doesn't move, doesn't push forward, just stands, waiting for Ioreth to make that final decision.

Trust or run, trust or run.

It's an easy decision.

She leans in, kisses Lithariel softly, wraps her arms around her, feels a smile curve against her lips. It's not an explosion, not all consuming like a forest fire or an avalanche. It's like a puzzle piece slotting into place, a built-up pattern of words and actions finally completed.

For now, it's slow, gentle, and they just relish in the fact that, after everything, they got to have this, that a tale of struggle and loss ends with more than hope. They have time to move, time to push things forward, so for now they just take joy in surviving, in finding happiness through pain.

"Sorry to ruin the moment," Ioreth says, once they move apart, "but I'm pretty sure Alyssi is waiting outside for you."

Lithariel shakes her head lightly, and takes Ioreth's hand. "We'd better show him in then, there's still a lot of planning to be done." She squeezes Ioreth's hand tightly, and moves towards the entrance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this thing sitting around unfinished for so long that the thought of finishing it is honestly bizarre to me, but here we are.
> 
> I've spent a lot of time thinking about things like who Ioreth is, what makes Lithariel work, and hopefully some of that complexity made it through. I wasn't a huge fan of how they approached Lithariel's character in game, she seemed a bit flat and callous, which is why I tried to give her a much stronger sense of empathy, even if her strong pride still gets people hurt. And Ioreth... Well let's be real the game didn't really give her a personality in the ten seconds she was alive. Let me know what you guys think of them.
> 
> Anyway, merry Xmas and happy holidays guys!! 2018 is gonna be our year just wait

**Author's Note:**

> I've got the rest of this written up but like.... it's a mess so who knows how long editing will take hahaha  
> and yeah i'm sure i've made some major lore mistakes but whatever i guess.  
> Feel free to come talk to me over at my [twitter](https://twitter.com/AdaarHerah/) or [tumblr](http://octopusdragon.tumblr.com/)


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